Sleeve T Rocks

METRO 8: A STAR IS BORN 

 

 

By Sleeve T 

 

 

 

 

Dedicated To Everyone Who’s Ever Had A Dream. 

 

 

 

 

Part 1: A Star Is Born 

The sound of thousands of screaming voices was not a common one in the Metro 8 area. The orderly nature of the city was essentially mandated, any foot stepped out of line accounted for and any disturbance prevented. Technology had seen to that, organizing the populace like files in a cabinet. Order was a strict necessity since the turn of the century, as previously unaccounted for disturbances had caused the collapse of the modern world. There were only a handful of places left for people to live a normal life, and most were willing to sacrifice freedom for safety. That safety came with the price of strict, unmovable order. There would be no repeating mistakes of the past. 

The Metro 8 area was resultably predictable. Most nights were painstakingly quiet, save for the occasional siren or scattering set of footsteps. On a handful of occasions, however, a privileged few would have the opportunity to gather in a stadium sized arena on the outskirts of the city. This arena, an oval-shaped building that housed thousands,  had an open design that looked out into the night’s sky and the stars above were drowned out by city lights with the remainder of the sky left pitch black like a dark blanket covering the crowd. The parameter to the center floor was surrounded by thousands of seats that ascended up the curved levels of each floor, every inch designed with the purpose of being filled with bodies, the bodies of the people who paid top dollar to see whatever performances were in town that night. This night was one of these rare nights, and the arena was fully booked. 

Some of the events that took place at the arena were tame. You could see the symphony, the ballet, the opera, and other bits of fine art come through town. Other events were rowdier, such as sporting events or the big fight. Occasionally, a crowd came to listen to someone else talk about a subject that interested them. Though every entertainment medium had evolved to the point where it could arrive in one’s home in whatever format one wanted, there was still something personal to the live events and the way it brought the people in attendance together. It was one of the few places in which the citizens of Metro 8 felt they had a place, rather than simply a need to be satisfied. Community was the justification for the civic good of the arena, and thus the justification to fund its existence. 

The rambunctious screams of the crowd that wailed into the Metro City night were dedicated to a different kind of talent this night, a rare visitor gracing the stage of the Grand Metro Arena (GMA for short). It wasn’t often that a true star of the musical world bestowed the city with their presence, despite the fact that it was one of the last nine cities in the North American region. Music was becoming a lost art, something people listened to in the background rather than investing anything personal into. Regardless, it was a musician that brought the community together for this occasion. This was enough to catch the attention of those who followed local affairs. 

Throughout the streets of the city a sweet sound softly filled the atmosphere as it spilled from the arena like warm air. The sound was that of a female tenor, one who’s voice blended in with a collection of eclectic instruments. The music group consisted of an acoustic guitar, a piano, a full drum set, an electric bass guitar, and an accompaniment of backing vocals that all came together to form an ensemble residents of Metro City rarely got to hear anymore. The sound of a band, a concept long lost in the new age of digital entertainment. The human quality of each instrument permeated into every pluck of each string, the vibration it created blending seamlessly into a harmony that buzzed through everyone within walking distance of the famous GMA. 

The arena was divided into four sections, each sorted by class. Those with the least expensive tickets sat in the very back, a general admission area where you could barely see the players on the stage and there were no seats available. Still, they could hear the music and enjoy the experience with the  other concert goers. Next there was the middle tier. Seating was available, and attendees could pre-select their own section. They didn’t have to wonder what kind of place they were getting, and the chaos of the general admission crowd was easy to avoid. Finally, in the front row you would find the ones that paid the top dollar for their place. This area was called ‘The Pit’, another  general admission space which also lacked seating, only a standing area where everyone pushed their way to the best spot that they could secure. Sometimes, with enough effort, they’d be lucky enough to get close enough to their favorite artists. The thought of this was enough to keep the fans paying top dollar. With any luck, they would brush fingers, make eye contact, or sing their favorite line into the mic as the singer joined in the front line. These moments, as trivial as they might seem to an outsider, could define the lives of the people who loved these artists. 

Away from the chaos of the crowd was the backstage area. This was the most exclusive area to any event, strictly off-limits to anyone who didn’t have an in. Those without money or connections to whatever industry was throwing the event would be politely rejected at the entrance. Only those with a highly sought-after backstage pass would get by the security team, and from there one had to show this pass to every person with a suit and an ear piece as you navigated this complex world of access and privilege. The guest list was tight, and the behavior there was just as tightly regulated. 

Even deeper into this inner sanctum was a long hallway that led to the artist’s private area. You could find the dressing rooms and green room, the spaces in which the stars of the night prepared for their performance. It was often rumored what these darlings of society did behind the confines of closed doors: a ritual, a drink, or in some cases maybe even hard drugs were a possibility. There were plenty of problems in the industry, and very little doubt that much of it found its way back stage to the stars. At the end of the day, no one really knew what transpired. This area was cut off from the outside world. 

The dressing rooms and green room were both empty. The members of the band, the ones who had previously occupied these rooms, had taken the stage. The concert had been going on for over an hour, enjoyed by the crowd as well as the small group to the side of the stage. This group, the one lucky enough to find themselves on the same stage as the night’s main event, consisted of handlers, the press, and also the few lucky fans who had either paid exorbitant amounts to stand near their idol or had close connections in the industry. There was a distinct difference in disposition between these two categories of person, that of industry insiders and that of the paying fans. The ones who paid were lit with the passion of true enthusiasts, the kind of people who would give anything to be there in that moment. They understood the value of their place in this exclusive world, as they had put a dollar amount on it. The industry types, however, gave an air of bored entitlement. These exclusive passes were mostly handed out from the companies they worked for, and those who came had debated beforehand if they really wanted to get through metro traffic to attend. The separation between worlds could not be clearer, from fashion to disposition. 

On stage, however, the true light of the night was shining. A star, as they called her, with a beautiful voice and a soulful sway to her lulling melodies. Her band, a fashionable throwback to the days of music passed, acted as a perfect complement to her earthy style. Her red sundress, lipstick, and heels were a colorful tribute to her flavor of sound. She was everything every young woman wanted to be: talented and sultry, commanding the attention of all around her. To the men, she was a symbol of everything they wanted in a woman: vital, passionate, flirtatious, a symbol of all of their daydreams and desires. At the end of the day, however, it was undeniably her music that defined her essence. Her style, her energy, and her good looks were all secondary to the main force that drew the world in, man and woman alike: her voice. 

This starlet was the thread that connected the people of the arena that night. Every single soul sang the words that she wrote, their hands in the air and their bodies swaying with the rhythm. In this moment, she was the ringleader of a mass of people who wanted nothing more than to watch her perform and partake in her art. This was her moment, seized and commanding. And, seemingly as quickly as the performance had started, it came to a close. 

With her final gesture, a hand in the air and her head cocked up at the sky, it was all over. The final words to her song dissipated into the night, and with it a noticeably receding of energy that ebbed away like a wave into the ocean. The audience clapped until their hands were raw and red, hopeful the energy they were exerting would convince the night’s star to stay for an extra encore. Sometimes, when the crowd was rambunctious enough, it inspired the performing artist to stay and play a small set of extra songs. The fever pitch of enthusiasm, however, would not bring out those extra songs. Instead, she re-approached the microphone to delivery her parting monologue: 

“Metro 8, thank you so, so much, for having me. I can’t even express what a blessing it is, coming from such a small town with so little, who never thought a soul on this planet could ever be touched by a word I say.  I feel truly blessed to spend this moment with you.” 

The crowd cheered, holding their hands out to her and screaming her name. A smile stretched across her face and a single tear rolled down her cheek. 

“I truly, deeply love you, and I will see you next time. Good night, Metro Arena!” 

The audience exploded into applause one final time. She waved to the crowd as she made her exit from the left stage. The band flourished in their parting gestures, holding their hands out to the audience and getting their share of the adoration. Before long, the only people left on the stage were the stagehands breaking down the set and gathering the cables and mic stands. The audience’s hope for an encore was left hanging in the night air, unfulfilled. The star of the evening had left the stage already. Her presence, however, was still buzzing everywhere she went. Two fans, who had paid top price to stand near the performance, had already given her posters to sign. She obliged them, blessing the prints with her insignia and transforming the ordinary piece of paper into an irreplaceable treasure. Two more fans then asked for photos with her, of whom she also obliged. Soon, she was surrounded by fans. This attention, though warranted, could be overwhelming. She could never be by herself, always surrounded by admirers or handlers. 

“Scarlett! Scarlett, can we have a word?” 

Quite suddenly a microphone was shoved into the starlet’s face and a reporter at the other end began asking her questions. This was also a common occurrence, another piece of her privacy she would sacrifice to do what she loved. The reporters would pretend to care, asking questions that seemed to show interest in her, but they always ended their inquiries with sensational titles and pieces that mischaracterized everything she stood for. Still, they went even harder on you in the press when you didn’t give them anything to work with. She obliged, politely. 

“Scarlett, this is your final stop on the Metro Big 8. Are you relieved to be done?” 

“Oh, no. I’m never relieved to stop doing what I love. Going off the road, it’s like leaving home for me. It’s never a relief, not a second.” 

“It’s clear that you’ve put a lot of energy into the production of your sets each stop of the tour, and only take a few days off each month. Can you tell us how you maintain your busy schedule?” 

“I have an amazing team, one that keeps me focused. If it weren’t for them, my life would no doubt be a total mess. I’m kind of disorganized in my day to day routines, so it’s nice to know that I have them there for me.” 

“You’ve also said that when you’re on stage you tap into a ‘stage personality’. Can you tell us more about that?” 

This question was met with silence from the star. She went into a deep place in the back of her mind, returning a moment later with a beaming smile. 

“It’s scary, finding the courage to get up there every night knowing you have to connect with so many amazing people. Naturally, I’m kind of shy. I wasn’t close to my immediate family. In a way, my audience, they’ve become my new family. From that point it’s like a little voice in my head says ‘okay, you’re someone else now. You’re here to give it your all, to give your fans what they deserve from you.’ When that voice takes over, it takes me to the place I need to be in order to be the person they expect.” 

“This voice, you’ve mentioned it before. Can you elaborate?” 

The question made her uncomfortable, and across the room a towering figure had noticed her reaction to the attention. A tall, tan man in a dark suit with wide, intense eyes scanned the room for all potential disturbances to the artist’s peace of mind. This man, her main handler in the business, was able to see the brief flash of panic in his star as the reporter stepped into anxious territory with his line of questioning. The handler quickly moved in, shoving several fans away. 

“Alright, give our star some space!” 

The crowd started to scatter as soon as the words left his mouth. He was the perfect man for the job, a charismatic but intimidating figure who had no problem telling those around him what he thought was best and defining the reality of the room. If you chose to disagree with it, you were separating yourself from reality in his mind. His voice commanded authority, deep and hypnotic, and his larger frame intimidated all the smaller people around him. He was good at his job of keeping the star’s mind at ease and separating her from the people who sought to corrupt her. Her handler’s job had always been that of keeping her isolated and contained from the distractions of the outside world. 

The performers of the modern age were all contractors. The people who penned these contracts had investments to protect. Thus, the need to tightly regulate each artist’s life became necessary. Words like ‘isolate’ and ‘contain’ were common in the world of handlers. Stars weren’t like other people. They needed to be shielded from outside influences, ones that would prevent their work from flourishing.  Handlers were trained to reinforce the ideals of the profession. Words like hard work, dedication, and sacrifice were drilled in like dogma. Any performer was simply average without these fundamental principles, prone to the defects of the outside world. In this regard, the handlers saw their roles as the archangels of the entertainment kingdom, keeping a watchful eye on each of its restless children. 

The handler put his arm around his scared starlet and led her away from the side of the stage, further into the concrete tunnel that eventually exited out to the back parking lot where the  private vehicles resided. He continued to reassure her sympathetically with gentle touches as they walked. She didn’t mind this physical affection. Unlike most of the people around her, he understood who she was. When there was no one else to talk to in their business, he had been there for her. When there were problems too big to handle, he made them go away. There was no one else she could trust, and though they had come together under professional circumstances there was no one she cared about more personally. She had been alone for so long, and in many ways, he had become like a father to her. 

The starlet’s handler continued to rub her shoulders as they cleared out of the building. Her body eased as he did so, letting his arms wrap around her. He squeezed her close, comforting her with his voice and gestures. 

“Let’s go, Scarlett.” 

Scarlett smiled nervously as he guided her into the vehicle, a large and angular automatic vehicle from the rental service’s luxury fleet. The side contained a metal handle of which you simply needed to push in order to enter. The handler placed the tips of his fingers on this metal surface, and the car door swung upward and folded into an opening. From there he guided Scarlett by her hand, gently leading her into its open door. The automated vehicle began buzzing as the front LED screen sprung to life and the vehicle’s pillar lights illuminated to a dull glow. They shone upon the empty seats of the vehicle, where Scarlett settled into the synthetic mesh fabric of the bench.. 

The two settled into their seats and the door slid shut, the route calculated in an instant. Scarlett let herself sink into the heated cushioning as the vehicle sprang into action and whisked her off into the dark night. The voice of the vehicle’s AI spoke up through the speaker system: 

“Thank you for choosing Premiere Metro Vehicles. Now en route to the Metro 8 W.” 

All vehicles in Metro 8 were automated, as human error had been determined by administrative boards to be the leading cause of traffic fatalities and thus deemed unsafe for the general public. Most of these automated cars were corporate, mass produced and lent out to those who needed it on demand. As a result, most of these vehicles were in poor repair. The more expensive ones, however, were much cleaner and more aesthetically pleasing. Like most things in Metro 8, you could buy your way into a better life, and the vehicles of the stars were no different. The vehicle they sat in was expertly detailed with accented seating and interior mood lighting, a sound system, a minibar, and a small screen. These all added up to a posh, well-regarded interior the likes of which you would ordinarily see in an upscale hotel. For stars like Scarlett, desirable transportation was one of the rewards for their status, an ultimately cheap solution to accommodate her lonely life. 

The vehicle drove through the city with a mind of its own, the street lights flying past the periphery of the vehicle like tiny multicolored firecrackers. Those colors reflected in the glass, the lights flashing by Scarlett’s face one at a time. Each one sped by rhythmically and hypnotically as her wide eyes stared blankly into the night sky, glaring passed the street lamps and straight into the stars. Somehow, she thought, both the stars and the streetlamps did their job of lighting up the night sky. One was created to serve the people, the other to serve the heavens. Which category she belonged to, that was the question that plagued her mind on nights such as these. Was her life so different from a lamp post, artificially bright but artificial nonetheless? 

These questions, as frightening as they seemed, were liberating as well. For once in a long while she was inside her own headspace and desires, a place that the demands of the industry couldn’t tap into. It was a place they had tried to isolate her from. But even when she was alone, with moments of silence to process her thoughts, there was the constant presence of that voice whispering in her ear, telling her who to be. She sometimes wondered if the thoughts she had when she was alone were truly hers to begin with, or if  everything she thought and felt was simply  programming by this point? 

Her handler looked her over. She could feel his attention on her, could sense the exact location of his gaze. 

“Have you started thinking about the next leg of the tour?” 

“No, not yet. I think I need some time to unwind after all that we’ve done with this one.” 

“Well, don’t forget. You have a lot of people with nothing to do on a Friday night. You need to be there for them. They’re lonely without you.” 

Scarlett nodded to him, a grim smile forcing its way across her face. She turned from him, back out to the stars. 

Up ahead one of the main tunnel systems showed itself, a deep trench that led under the city’s lake. It was an artificial creation, something to give the people on the east side of the city’s divide something to enjoy. But it also acted as a barricade and kept the lower-class residents away from the west side. where the wealthy few lived. The far west end acted as an escape for those who could afford housing away from the areas with major problems. There was very little crime here, less homelessness, and no drug dealers roaming the streets. To pass over, your vehicle had to be approved by the county’s vehicle identification computer system. Otherwise, your automated vehicle would stop immediately and turn in the other direction, driving you back to your home. 

The car descended into the tunnel that crossed under the divide. The light from the city was drowned out in an instant as the vehicle entered the mouth of the tunnel. The stars that Scarlett had been admiring were gone and a concrete slab took its place under the earth, the vehicle now contained and shrouded in darkness. She didn’t like this route, not at all. 

A hand rested on her thigh, startling her. It was her handler, running his fingers up her leg, his nails dragging into her skin. She was used to his touch, but this time something was different. His grip was harder. He was holding her in place. For a moment, Scarlett involuntarily grimaced in nervous anticipation of his actions. But he was familiar with her gestures, her body language, and most importantly of all, her trance words. 

He flattened his hand on her leg, leaning in. 

“Clavis Ad Gaudium Est Inobedientia.” 

Scarlett’s eye twitched. It was subtle, but visible. She would not blink again until he uttered the next words. 

“Clavis Ad Gaudium Est Inobedientia.” 

The reaction became more intense as he continued to murmur the words. 

“6      7      4      3      5      8.” 

These numbers provoked a much stronger reaction. Scarlett was shaking, a light tremor that crescendo into a violent spasm. It was a short-lived outburst, one that subsided as her body collapsed to the side of the car like a sack of produce. It was unclear what state of consciousness she was in. She was either lucid and paralyzed, or out of it completely. Her handler propped her up quickly, making sure that she wouldn’t hurt herself. He stroked her hair as he positioned her body upright, her eyes twitching underneath closed lids. Then he whispered in her ear. 

“Violette, wake up.” 

The voice of the handler broke the spell. Her eyes blinked, a dead pinprick of blackness where the light of her starlet soul once shone. Same in face but different in air, she picked herself back up with a rigid stiffness. After assuming her proper posture, she turned her head to her handler, the depth to her eyes absent and empty. 

“Violette, we’re here.” 

She nodded back to him stiffly, her mechanical motions rigid and robotic. She adjusted the straps to her dress, dolled up her hair, and took a deep breath. She smiled back to her handler, cold yet sincere. 

“Make sure you show him a good time, Violette.” 

She smiled back at him. The only emotion that smile portrayed was that of compliance. 

The car door swung open and Violette took her first steps out into the street. Beyond the open door was a velvet carpet with two rope linings on each side. Though this would traditionally suggest a premiere event or gathering, in this case it was unlit and deserted, though several pieces of paper lined the floor. They appeared to be printouts for a political campaign, the colors distinctly patriotic. The crowd must have dissipated long ago. Her destination was unclear, but it certainly wasn’t going to be for an appearance at a public event. It was too late for that now. Curfew for public streets had been enacted already, and anyone with good sense stayed indoors. 

At the end of the carpet resided the door to a large building, one of which was clearly historical. Most buildings in Metro 8 consisted of synthetic materials, as they could withstand natural disasters such as floods and fires much more efficiently. However, due to activism from the historical preservation society, several buildings were kept up to retain the city’s heritage. Only the most privileged and elite had access to these pieces of history anymore. Regular public operations served as too great a risk, and only government officials and occasionally high priority celebrities were allowed access to the establishments. This notion of exclusivity was further re-enforced by two security guards at the door. They were dressed in all black, both equipped with earpieces that emphasized their intimidating role. Their suits were highlighted with lapels that were issued to official government security. These men were Metro Capitol officers, the guards assigned to sitting members of congress. 

The guards focused their attention on the starlet as she approached them. She didn’t smile, didn’t blink. They eyed her up and down before one of them started tapping on their earpiece, briefly muttering something into it that she couldn’t decipher. A moment later, however, he lowered his hand from his ear and gestured to her. 

“You’re clear to come in. Room 204.” 

She nodded back to them as they opened the door for her, struggling for a moment with her name. Violette. She was Violette. How could she forget something as fundamental as her own name, she wondered? It was a long day, she reasoned, and the nature of her work was something most would rather forget. It was probably natural to sometimes forget who you were in stressful situations, no matter how many times she had done this. It never got easier. 

The interior of this brick hotel was nothing like the outside. As opposed to the exterior, rustic and dated, the interior was synthetic and modern, renovated to current standards from the roof to the floor. The lobby was dimly lit with a giant chandelier, modern, highly detailed, and well regarded. To the right, a small check-in desk resided. No one was there to man it. It was clearly after hours in this establishment, or maybe the place had simply been shut down for this high priority guest. No one was at the bar to the right, either. The place was completely deserted. The light from the stars and the moon reflected off the surface of the floor as it flooded through the windows along each side of the room. They led to a staircase up to the second floor, which was aligned with wooden doors. 

Up the red carpet and to the staircase she went, until she had topped them and had the chance to see the lobby from the top. Only for a moment, as she didn’t want to keep this high priority guest waiting to meet her any longer. She had a reputation, and though the view from the top was breathtaking, highlighting the perfection of the architecture, she didn’t have time to admire its beauty any longer.  There was a guest to entertain. 

She followed the guard rails to the first door around the square-shaped bend. 201, it read. She was on the right path. The next one, 202, logically followed. Then 203, and finally there it was: room 204. She stood in front of its imposing black door, seemingly no different than any other door in the empty lobby, yet it held a different kind of authority than the ones around it. It was her destination. 

Violette took but a moment to adjust her dress straps and ruffle her hair. After pursing her lips and readjusting her posture she finally knocked on the door. A few moments of silence, and then nothing. She knocked again, this time less softly. The sound reverberated throughout the entire hall. This one was sure to get the occupant’s attention. Soon enough, life sprung inside. There was a rustling, followed by a firm set of footsteps that marched closer toward the door. Violette tossed her hair back behind her shoulders, her nerves dulled by an unknown force. She felt calm, sedated, uncaring of what she would find on the other side of the door to room 204. This callousness felt familiar, yet inorganic, like something planted in her head as a defense for the things she had seen in the past. 

A digital beep rang out, letting her know the door was unlocked. She eyed the handle, wondering if whoever occupied the room would let her in. When no one greeted her she finally reached for the handle, turning it and letting herself in. The door slammed behind her with surprising force. 

The room she found herself in was dark, a narrow hallway leading to a larger main area. To the left of this hall was a door left ajar with soft white light spilling out. It led to a bathroom, set with a marble bathtub and shower that were elegantly carved and polished. The bath was filled with water and bubbles, signaling that it had been recently used. The marble countertop to the left housed an expensive toiletry bag next to which were small lines of white powder neatly cut up along the surface. She didn’t examine anything too closely, as she didn’t want to be caught eyeing her client’s vices. It wasn’t any of her business. 

Passing the bathroom she saw the main living room, which was much larger than any hotel she had seen. It contained a TV that took up most of the space of the wall, which was adjacent to a full-sized couch embroidered in red cloth. Along the longer wall were many windows that would usually open up to a sweeping view of the city. The curtains to these windows, however, had all been drawn shut, retaining the room’s privacy. The only light to illuminate the room came from that wall-sized TV as it cascaded out like ripples into a dark pool. 

To the left of the room, away from the entertainment area, she found a massive bed with giant wooden framing. The bed itself was the size of two king sized mattresses, taking up an entire section of the room. The bedding was brightly colored and elaborately embroidered with symbols Violette didn’t recognize. On top of all of this sat a man, a heavyset one, in a purple robe holding the remote to the TV. He was watching the screen, his robe open and his overgrown belly hanging over pale boxer shorts. He hadn’t removed his black dress socks, which didn’t match anything else he wore. The few hairs that remained atop his head were thin and wispy. The man was deep in his television programming, and didn't even notice Violette as she approached him. Violette cleared her throat, ending that spell. He took notice to her, glancing from a distance. 

“It’s you.” 

His voice sounded familiar somehow. Maybe she had heard it somewhere on the public announcement systems? It was one she had definitely heard advocating for a better America on a TV spot, or possibly on a mobile ad for her phone. It was hard to say. 

“Come, sit.” 

Violette sauntered over to him, her red dress sashaying behind her with each step. The man eyed her movements carefully, an intensity in them that may have been fueled by whatever she saw in the bathroom. He waited for her to sit next to him on the bed as she carefully folded her hands on her lap. For a moment, there was silence. 

“You’re even more beautiful in person.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I bet you could have your pick of the litter, couldn’t you?” 

“I.. I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“I mean, men. You can have any man you want, can't you?” 

She tried to understand the question, but the words he spoke sounded accusatory. She didn’t want to upset him, wanted to understand his wants and needs to the best of her ability. Yet in his greeting alone there was an undertone of venom and animosity baked into every word. 

“I run one of the most important committees in this country, one that dictates the lives of every person across each of the Metro areas. Everyday people depend on me. But girls like you…” 

He paused for a moment, the word ‘you’ more pronounced than the rest. 

“Girls like you, you only want what people can give you.” 

She wanted to object to this accusation. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t a slave. But she couldn’t. Her will to fight was deep behind a wall that had been reinforced since stepping out of the car and into that room. She could even hear her own inner monologue pronounced in a voice as loud as the voices in the room she sat in: ‘he’s right.’ 

The balding man sniffed deeply, clearing his sinuses. The sweat on his forehead beaded around the wisps of hair that were able to survive on his shining head. His brow furrowed, as if angered by a thought deep inside his head that he couldn’t articulate. 

“Public image. Family. Faith. These are the things they try to control me with.” 

Violette nodded, yet her agreement seemed to anger him. He reached up to her face, resting his thumb on one of her cheeks and the rest of his fingers on the other. He squeezed, pursing her lips. 

“And what are the chains that bind you? A fucking payday? Is that all you are at the end of the day?” 

His voice was now seething with anger. She tried to look away, down toward the sheet, but his hand grabbed her chin and pulled her eyes back up to his level. 

“You’d never even consider someone like me if not for the money. That’s all it is to you, isn’t it?” 

The repulsed desire to close her eyes had been killed by the fear of what he might do to her if he saw her doing so. She was forced to witness every second of his intense glare deep into her eyes, studying the feelings she might be experiencing. His grip on her chin tightened, as if hoping to extract more from her gaze. 

“That’s all you are? A fucking whore?” 

With that vicious last word, he threw her face away from his with the force of an angry, full grown man. Her frailty showed in that moment as she fell from him effortlessly. His stature increased, his shoulders widening. 

“They told me you like it rough. Like to be punished. Is that true?” 

Violette turned back to him, her hair disheveled from the force of his actions. This time, her eyes were clenched shut. She couldn’t look at his face, and it didn’t matter. She knew he was displeased that she dared to look away from him again. She knew how it made him feel, which was to say repulsive. His hand gripped her chin tighter and the sweat on her forehead building, something the man seemed fascinated by. He ran his fingers along her scalp, letting the beads collect on his fingertips. 

“You think you’re just like us. Better than us. Just because you sweat too. Because you can come, or bleed, or maybe even feel.” 

His eyes sharpened, his intentions abundantly clearly. 

“Let’s see how much of that is true.” 

Violette couldn’t find a word of protest, no matter how deep into her will she dug. Frozen like a prisoner of time and space, she looked away again. That was what finally set him off, and he retaliated with a sharp, open-palmed slap across her face. It wasn’t one that considered her delicacy, rather one intended to leave a mark. She fell from him toward the bed and onto her side, the pain splashed across her flushed cheek. 

What little hope left that the violence was over died with the look in his eyes. He wasn’t going to give her a break. Rather, he raised his left fist to her hair and grabbed it forcefully. He held her head steady, lining her in his sight, before winding his right fist backward. The punches that followed were repeated and all landed in the same spot on her delicate face. The first few punches had left her dizzy. By the fifth punch, she was out cold. 

For a few moments there was only blackness before Violette came to, her head pounding and her mind clouded with confusion. Her eyes slowly traveled up the white sheets of the bed she was on until her gaze reached her host. There, positioned above her, the senator sat with his robe fully opened, a trail of patchy hair traveling down his large, perturbed belly. The trail led all the way to what looked like a bird’s nest of hair around his crotch. Between that hair, he frantically used his thumb and two fingers to stroke his barely-visible member. Her eyes traveled back up to his face, still blurry, as he grimaced in grunting concentration. Sweat ran down his face, his lips formed into an O as he hyperventilated. Then his eyes opened, focusing directly on her, and Violette was locked in fear. 

“Welcome back, sweetheart.” 

He took his hands off his member, revealing what could break through his patches of hair. It was clear that he was ready to go, and she wasn’t sure what he expected her to do besides lie there and take it. With no tenderness he picked her up, turned her face down, and spread her legs wide open with one hand. She could tell what he was doing with the other as he mounted her, getting ready for her again. She could hear the friction of skin rubbing against skin rapidly, like twigs trying to strike a flame. He took a moment to stop only so he spank her, hard, where he had her spread. He continued these open palmed slaps to her cheeks until they were red. 

After much ferocious stroking and beating he finally positioned himself over her. Her eyes wouldn’t close, not even after everything she had witnessed. Instead, she stared lifelessly toward the wall like a rag doll as he entered her. He was hardly well endowed, but she could feel every inch violate her, could feel the hair around his groin scrape against her thighs as he completed his first few strokes. The weight of his gut slammed her against his mattress, her mouth unable to come up for air. Another slap across her right buttock shocked her into the realization that she wouldn’t take much more of this punishment. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry out in protest, yet she couldn’t move, paralyzed. She didn’t know if it was fear or if she had gone into shock from the overwhelming sensations that were taking over her entire body without mercy. The act would only last two short minutes, two minutes more minutes than any lesser woman could bear. 

After thrusting and groaning he pulled out quickly, giving Violette only  a brief release from his grasp. He then grabbed her by the side of her hip and pulled her over to face him. He frantically stroked himself with his other hand, his red, panting face forced in her face as he finished. He groaned as his bodily fluids flew from him like confetti, landing all over her naked body. There was only one image that cut through all of it: his face as he climaxed. It was the most disgusting thing she thought she could witness, like a dying animal on the side of the road. 

It was finished, she realized, the act coming to a close at long last. She was covered with his fluids, drying by the second. She wasn’t sure if she should leave or stay, so she sat there, waiting for him to instruct her further. He was panting still, leaning over the bed and the many hairs that ran along his back displayed in full view. As soon as he stopped hyperventilating, he turned to her, considering her violated body for a few moments, as if determining her fate. 

He stood, his tiny member wagging between his legs like the pendulum of a grandfather’s clock. He marched to the bathroom, grabbing a towel to wipe off all the secretion from the act. As soon as he finished cleaning himself, he grabbed a second towel. He tossed it to Violette coldly and deliberately. 

“Now clean yourself up and get out of here, whore.” 

Violette nodded politely as he gruffly walked into the back area of the bathroom. She could hear him start the water to the shower, taking her cue. With the towel she delicately cleaned herself off, as if drying off after a day at the pool. The mess he made would leave her body fairly easily, but she could still feel the vileness of the things he had done to her. The ways he violated her, it stuck to her skin like a kind of dirt she couldn’t get off. Her head hung in shame as she finished mopping up. 

Why is this happening to me? 

Violette quickly gathered her clothes, strewn on the floor in a heap. She didn’t remember removing them, still grateful to find them together in one place. She slipped into her red dress, grabbed her heels and moved to the door in a power walk that she hoped wouldn’t be perceived as a panicked dash should he still be watching her. But she wanted to run as fast as her feet would take her. The door in front of her was her final obstacle. Fortunately, it was open. He didn’t plan on keeping her any longer. 

Outside, in the main hall, she was finally free. She began to flee, hurrying as fast as she could from the scene of this horrific act. Past every door, past every light post, until she was at the stairs. She would take them two, three at a time, bounding quickly down them and towards the exit. Finally, the red carpet led to the set of double doors, the ones where the guards had approved her entry. She hoped with whatever optimism she had left that they wouldn’t harass her on the way out. She hoped beyond hope that this was finally over. 

Once past the double doors, she was back out into the cold night of the Metro 8 streets. The guards who had watched over the door were gone.  They must have left, finally relieved of their duty for the night. But the limo still waited, the same limo she had arrived in. The sight of it stoked fear in her heart, and anger as well. She knew who did this to her. He was no doubt waiting for her in this vehicle before her. She wanted to tell him a piece of her mind, to make him feel the horror of the unsafe situation he put her in. The door to the electric limo opened automatically, her handler sitting comfortably inside   to greet her. He had the same shiny, slimy grin that he always wore. 

“Welcome back, Violette.” 

She opened her mouth, ready to protest. Ready to tell him to go to hell, that what he had just put her through was too much. That she was going to quit, and never work with him again. All of these thoughts were at the forefront of her mind, the things she wanted to tell him above all else. That he was a monster. 

No voice came from her mouth. Instead, her handler raised his hand to eye level. Her eyes followed his hand as he moved it to the left and then to the right, not missing a single motion, fixated on his hand’s swaying movements. Soon she found herself frozen in place like a scarecrow planted in its place. Even the cold air failed to rattle her nerves. 

His hand landed back into the center position, her eyes becoming intensely focused on his. He let a few seconds pass, allowing the silence of the streets to take over. Then his finger snapped, loud. It was as if all the cells in her brain had popped like kettle corn, all the memories she had developed exploding into nothingness. The senator, the hotel, the guards, whatever else she had held in her mind’s eye were vanishing. Who was it she was here to see, she thought? Why wasn’t she at her hotel? 

What is this place? 

“Hello, Scarlett.” 

Scarlett stood there, confused by her surroundings. This wasn’t the place she was booked to stay. This old hotel looked to be in the wrong end of town. Someone had made a mistake, she reasoned. Maybe they were in the process of re-routing, a miscommunication perhaps. No matter. Her handler would fix it, as he always did. 

“Did we make a wrong turn?” 

“Yes. A wrong turn. We’ll be at the Metro W in no time, and you’ll be in  your suite before you know it. It’s set up just the way you like it.” 

“Perfect.” 

She took his hand, letting her lead him back into the limo. The warm air surrounded her from the AC vent. A security washed over her as she settled into the safety of her vehicle. Who knew what happened in this city, even in these supposed safe neighborhoods? At least she was far from harm, she reasoned, here with her handler and on her way to her night’s lodging. 

“Scarlett?” 

“Yes?” 

Her handler rested his arm on her leg. He turned to her, smiling. 

“You really are something special.” 

She smiled back. Those words were exactly the reassurance she needed. As tough as the road would get, as many obligations she had to all the people in her life, she would always come back at the end of the night with one small comfort: the fact that someone truly cared about who she really was. 

“So are you.” 

The smile she returned was genuine, and they beamed at each other as the limo corrected course. It drove off into the night, toward the Financial District, where her hotel awaited her, the stress of the show long gone. 

The End