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Chapter Two
Branson
It’s a few days later when Bud comes to remove me from my room and brings me back to Jane’s workshop. A large hulking man, he has a bulbous nose and tiny, spaced-apart eyes, resulting in a face not even a mother would love. His touch revolts me, and even when Jane still wanted me around, I hated Bud. Now that Jane doesn’t ‘like’ me anymore, he revels in my misery as often as he completely ignores me.
“Come on, time to go,” he mutters as he grabs a hold of my bicep and leads me quickly through the gallery. As we walk into the workroom, I notice something new. A second cage across from mine.
Frowning, I ask, “What’s that for?”
Bud smacks me in the back of my head and pushes me toward my own small prison.
“Don’t ask questions,” is all he says. The familiar sound of the lock follows.
I sit back against my cage and eye the other one critically. New in this place is never a good thing
A few hours later, Jane enters the room with Bud dragging the body of a young man behind him. The guy is probably close to my age and I grimace when I notice he is still breathing. Oh god, I think, more live ones. Sometimes I’m lucky, and we go a long time with only sedated or dead bodies, but lately there have been more bodies and way more live ones. I hate having to hear them beg and cry. Makes my headaches worse.
Sighing quietly, I watch as the two bring the body up to the metal slab Jane uses to prepare the bodies. Thick straps are in place to hold down flailing limbs and dollar sized holes line the entire bottom allowing blood to seep into the bins below. I think there is a word for this type of table, but it isn’t in the books I have. Most of my knowledge of the outside world is from my own skewed memories and listening to the chatter of the TV I haven’t been allowed to watch in years. A moment later, the boy is strapped down and they leave us alone.
A while later Jane still hasn’t returned, which isn’t unusual in itself. Once she gets the subjects, she typically prepares them like this and then leaves to ‘inspire herself’, as she puts it. I don’t know what she is doing during these times, but I always dread when the subjects wake up before she gets back.
A thick coughing and sputtering noise comes from the boy on the table, much to my dismay. Rattling metal, the telltale sign of struggles, quickly follow.
“What the fuck!” the boy exclaims as he thrashes about on the cold table. “What the fuck is this! Help!” He starts to shout and cry.
I sigh but don’t respond, my head hanging between my knees.
“Who's there! I heard you. Who is that? What are you doing to me!”
I hate this.
“I didn’t do this to you,” I respond simply, “You’ve been taken by a woman named Jane.”
The boy stops thrashing long enough to listen. As he hears where my voice is coming from, he lifts his head slightly and down to the left towards my cage. His eyes widen as he takes in my prison and realizes I, too, am trapped. While he probably thinks he has the short end of this deal being on the table, I can’t deny having felt jealousy at some of the people who come through here. At least their pain is almost over. My hell continues day by day, no end in sight.
“What the hell is going on, man,” the boy asks frantically, “What the hell is this place?”
“Like I said, you’ve been taken for a woman named Jane. She is an artist.”
“What the fuck kind of artist is she! Where are we? What's going to happen?”
I look him in the eyes. “Hell, my friend. We are in hell.”
The boy stops asking questions and continues to struggle against the bonds. I’ve seen all kinds of escape attempts and know just how futile it is, but long ago discovered that telling them that only makes this in-between time that much worse. When I hear the faint sounds of footsteps down the gallery, I know the time has come.
The door opens, and immediately the boy's thrashing increases as Jane walks in. While her face could be mistaken for sweet and pretty, the darkness in her eyes always gives her away. That and the blood-spattered butcher’s apron she prefers to don.
I can’t see his face from this angle but can imagine the terror written there. I have the power to look away, to close my eyes, but I can’t shut my ears.
I listen because I have no choice.
I listen to the boy plead and beg.
I listen to Jane laugh and tease the boy.
I listen as she picks up a bone saw.
And for what seems like forever, I listen to the boy scream.
