Vapor

Chapter Seven

I needed a cigarette. I grabbed my overnight bag, but couldn’t squeeze it through the bars, so I looked for my pack of cigarettes with my face pressing between two bars.

Unable to find my pack or my lighter, I got frustrated and poured the entire contents of my bag onto the floor. I still couldn’t find them. Why had Damon taken my cigarettes and lighter? Maybe he thought I would set the place on fire. But then why were my Life Savers also missing? Nothing else was gone. I squeezed the empty bag through the bars, and filled it back up slowly.

When I got up and turned around, my eyes landed on what I forgot to ask him about: the TV monitors.

Maybe he liked to be watched. He’d walk around his room naked. That made sense. He already had an exhibitionist streak: walking around in transparent clothes. Why not go the whole way?

I didn’t even try to sleep. I screamed a few times during the night, and banged on the walls, and watched the monitors to see if he stirred. I thought about my parents and wondered when they would start getting worried. I cried a bit.

I sat staring out the bulletproof window. My view of the lit woods was blemished by the bruise marks I had caused and was already regretting. How long would it take for the police to start looking for me? Would I be reported missing on the news, eventually?

I got up and turned on the TV, thinking it would comfort me to be in touch with the free world. And maybe I’d come upon reports of missing people, and I’d understand what types of people got to get reported missing. I found a channel that was broadcasting news at this late hour, and to my astonishment I saw myself on the news! It was a video of me, taken from the back, running away, with Chriskate Turschicraw chasing me down the street. The anchorwoman was saying, “Ever since two o’clock this afternoon, everybody has been wondering: ‘Who is the pursued woman? Who could this woman be, pursued by the woman who is pursued by the world.’ Speculations abound.”

Next, a reporter was interviewing random people on the street, asking them who they thought the pursued woman was.

Someone answered, “I don’t know who she is, but she must be extraordinary, to be chased by such an extraordinary person.”

A man said, “I don’t know, but there must be something about her that’s different. Otherwise, why would the most beautiful woman in the world wanna catch her?”

Someone else said, “I think she must be a very famous actress or rock star. Or maybe another model.”

This time the reporter replied, “But didn’t you see the footage of the pursued woman? She doesn’t have a model’s body.”

“No, I didn’t see it. I heard the story on the radio. I don’t have a TV.”

Someone else said, “No, you can tell from her back that she’s not someone exceptional. I mean, she’s far from perfect, her butt’s not like rock. I think she’s an ordinary citizen, which is what makes it exciting. It means that any one of us could be chased down the street by someone like the Shell. It’s uplifting. You don’t have to be someone special, someone famous, to be pursued by people of worth.”

I watched, gaping. Maybe this insane broadcast meant that I was only dreaming. Maybe I had fallen asleep on Damon’s couch, and everything afterward had not really happened, including my imprisonment. Or better yet, maybe I had fallen asleep at home, after my bath, and had only dreamed that Damon called inviting me to the country.

I opened my eyes as wide as possible to wake myself up, in case this was indeed a dream. I had often used this technique successfully to wake myself up from nightmares. But this time nothing happened; the world didn’t change.

The anchorwoman came back on the screen. “The nation asks the pursued woman: please step forward. Let us know who you are. Let us know you.”

I screamed for Damon. The nation wanted me. I had to step forward. He had to let me step forward. Good excuse to be released. But he didn’t budge in his bed.

I stayed awake all night.

At ten of eight, Damon was still sleeping in his bed. At eight o’clock he came in, carrying a bag. He took out a key and entered my cell without hesitating.

I was mildly insulted. After all, I was the caged, angry animal, and what was he doing coming into my cage, risking his life? I felt like an emasculated beast.

“Hi,” he said, chewing gum. “You probably didn’t get much sleep. We can take it easy today.”

He plopped his bag down and was about to sit on the floor against the wall, when I told him about my fame as the pursued woman. I convinced him to watch the news with me until the story came on, which it did, to my relief. When the footage of the chase was shown, I told him that was me, running away from Chriskate Turschicraw. He was surprised, got a kick out of it, but said it changed nothing to his plan: the nation would have to wait to meet me. I told him I wanted the nation to meet me now, and that this could be a great opportunity for my acting career.

“Nonsense,” he said. “You have to be a good actress. Being pursued by Chriskate Turschicraw might open doors, but it won’t win you Oscars. Which leads me to what I want to talk to you about. To prepare myself to become your trainer, I’ve read many books on acting, which I’m sure you’ve read as well. I don’t think we should follow their theories. We won’t follow any theory. We’ll just act.” He smiled. “I also read some scene books, but I don’t think we’ll do any scenes from them. I’ll write scenes myself that we can memorize and perform.”

He took out of his bag a little notepad and flipped it open. “I also took notes of your desires and wishes. I will do everything in my power to make them come true.”

“Did you have this whole thing planned from the beginning or did you decide to kidnap me on the spur of the moment?”

“We were by the river one day when the idea came to me. I had been trying to figure out a way to repay you for saving me.”

“You realize it’s illegal what you’re doing?”

“Yes, I know.”

“I suggest you try to make me happy in a legal way.”

“Don’t worry, Anna, the end will justify the means, you’ll see. It’s simply a question of delayed gratification.”

“What are these TV monitors for?”

“I thought you might feel less lonely if you could see me doing stuff in the rest of the house. It might reassure you somehow, destroy an uncomfortable feeling of mystery.”

“Yes, it’ll make me feel better to see you enjoying your freedom while I’m in this cage.”

With the sudden, un-thought-out urge of a wild animal, I decided to attack Damon. I threw myself on him and tried to strangle him. He did not push me away, but instead reached into his bag and pulled out a gun. I immediately stopped my attack and stared at the gun in shock, not because I hadn’t dreamed it possible that he would have a gun, but because this was a water gun. Damon was not laughing, or even smiling. The gun was bright orange transparent plastic.

I rushed to the bathroom and closed the door and laughed, trying not to let him hear me. I wanted to neither flatter him nor offend him with my laughter. I buried my face in the thick bath towel and laughed until my eyes were wet with tears and I could barely breathe. The thought of him, in his transparent outfit, shooting his orange water gun, while his jiggling willy was faintly visible, was overwhelming.

And then I felt like crying, because this giant, insane child was not letting me go. I wanted him to shoot me. I wanted to see the thin stream of water wet my clothing like a wimpy ejaculation.

But I couldn’t risk it. Maybe real bullets came out. Maybe the gimmick was that it was a real gun that just looked like a water gun.

“Is that a real gun?” I shouted from the bathroom, knowing he would probably answer yes, just to be strange.

“No.”

“Is it a water gun?”

“Yes. But I can hurt you with it.”

“How? By throwing it at me?”

I opened the door and looked at him. The gun was no longer in sight. He was sitting on the floor against the wall, flipping through the pages of a book while blowing bubbles with his chewing gum.

From the night table, I quickly grabbed the lamp and alarm clock, which I had unplugged during the night for this purpose, and ran toward him. I threw the lamp at him. He blocked it with his arm and whipped out his water gun and shot me. There was a stabbing pain in my stomach. I screamed and dropped the alarm clock. I looked down at myself and saw a small shard of ice planted in the middle of my abdomen. I pulled it out and lifted my sweater and saw a bleeding half-inch cut near my belly button.

“Ow!” I said. “I’m bleeding!”

From his bag he took out a box of Band-Aids, pulled one out of the box, and threw it at me. It fluttered to the floor. He then took out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a package of cotton balls and handed them to me.

Blood was running down my stomach, spreading to the top of my pants. I said, “You think I can just put a Band-Aid on this? We have to go to the hospital, to the emergency room. I need stitches.”

“No you don’t. Disinfect yourself and put on the Band-Aid.” His gun was pointed at me.

I started disinfecting my wound. “You said it was a water gun, you liar.”

“Ice is water,” he said coldly. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use it, or even take it out at all. That’s why I brought it in a bag.”

“You deceitful asshole.”

He looked hurt. “Come over here.” He took me by the arm and positioned me in front of the bed. “Listen,” he said. “First off, it can kill. With the ice knife.” He shot a large blade of ice into the mattress. “Then there are the shards, which I shot you with. We also have the ice needles, which hurt about as much as getting a shot at the doctor’s.” He shot one into my pillow. “Then there are the ice threads. Those don’t really hurt at all.”

“So what are they for?”

“For the hell of it. There’s also the boiling water category. The doses come in three sizes: tablespoon, teaspoon, and half-teaspoon. And in two forms: stream or ball of water.” He shot all the varieties onto my bed.

“Can’t your gun just do a normal, gentle stream of room-temperature water?”

He opened his mouth, aimed the gun inside, and shot a few spurts. He suddenly looked in pain, and I thought perhaps he had used the boiling or ice features by accident. But no. All he said was, “Gross pH.”

He then talked about flexibility. He wanted to see how far I could stretch in every direction.

“Show me your bridge,” he said.

“My bridge? I don’t have a bridge.”

“You know, a back bend.”

“I know what a bridge is, and I don’t have one.”

“It doesn’t matter how small it is. I want to see it.”

“But I don’t have one. Not even a small one.”

“Sure you do. Do it.”

“I can’t. I don’t even have a speck of a bridge. You could shoot me with the shards or even the dagger and I still wouldn’t have a bridge.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll show you your bridge.”

“No, you will break my back. It’ll be a broken bridge.”

“Nonsense.” He made me lie down on my back with my legs bent, elbows up and palms flat on the floor on either side of my head, in the proper pre-bridge position. He slid his hands under my waist and tried to force me into a bridge by lifting my middle off the floor. But I wouldn’t let him bend me; I kept my back as straight and rigid as a board, too afraid of pain or injury. Damon pulled harder, and finally my entire body (hands and feet included) rose off the floor, my back still perfectly straight. I was balanced on his hands like a seesaw.

He gave up and put me back down, panting from the exertion. “As far as I’m concerned, a person cannot truly be sane if their body is not flexible. I know I wouldn’t be.”

“But you’re not sane.”

“Flexibility is not only important for sanity, it’s important for life. You know, deep down people die of stiffness. The root of all death is stiffness. As is proven by rigor mortis.”

“That happens after you’re dead.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Rigor mortis creeps up on you imperceptibly before you die, and it’s what kills you. You die of subtle stiffness. The intense stiffness you get a short while after death is just the symbolic manifestation, the proof that stiffness is what killed you.”

“That’s your insane theory.”

“Yes, I admit that it’s my amusing theory. But it could be true. And to a certain extent we know it is. We all know that being flexible is healthy. It even protects you against accidents. But flexibility is not only important for mental and physical health, it’s also important for emotional health. It’s an essential ingredient to successful relationships. What is far more fascinating, though, is that it is important in art.” He paused and then spoke slowly and intensely, as if imparting me with a very exciting secret: “In my opinion, the most basic, essential quality to genius is flexibility.” And he added very quickly: “There were no great artists without it.”

He took something red out of his bag and handed it to me. It was a bathing suit.

“Would you mind going in there and changing into this?” he said, waving toward the bathroom.

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to see your body. I need to get a clearer picture of how much work it needs.”

“I’m not a piece of meat.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wants to be the actor. Bodies matter.”

He took his plastic gun out of his bag and pointed it at me. “Now go.”

I went, sighing.

I took off my clothes, first hoping that the one-piece suit wouldn’t be too small, and then hoping it would be, just so he’d have a small failure. But it fit, and it was even somewhat flattering. But not flattering enough to make me feel totally at ease stepping out of the bathroom.

And then I became indignant at myself, and ashamed of feeling uneasy about my body. It was ridiculous; I was a captive. Here was the last place I should let images of tall, thin models that had oppressed women for centuries, or at least decades, add to my oppression.

I tried to comfort myself by remembering the best, and I think only, compliment I ever received about my face: I had been told that I resembled young Elizabeth Taylor, but with slightly lighter hair, and disfigured. “The way Elizabeth Taylor would look if her face had been gently squashed.”

I bluntly stepped out of the bathroom.

“Let’s see what we have here,” said Damon. “We have to work on the legs.”

He walked behind me and mumbled, “Forgive me for touching,” and squeezed my upper arm, feeling for the firmness or lack of it, I suppose. “We could tone the arms a little more. The stomach is in good shape … comparatively speaking. The buttocks need firming, but they will be taken care of along with the legs.”

“I’d like a cigarette.”

“No, sorry. That’s wish number five on the list: to stop smoking.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“You must have. You uttered it eight and a half times during the few weeks I knew you.”

“What are the others?”

“What others?”

“The other wishes on your fucking list.”

“You know what they are: they’re your wishes. I don’t need to tell them to you.”

Still from behind, he placed his hands on my shoulders and pulled them back. “Your posture needs improving. Ah, you see, when you stand straight, your breasts look as young as their age. You’re lucky, they are quite large, which means they will still be nicely full after.”

I waited for a moment, and said, “After what?”

“After you do things like … exercise, and little things like eat … healthy, or … less.” He blew a bubble with his gum, which exploded all over his face. He unstuck part of it and put it back in his mouth, but plenty was left stuck on his cheeks and chin. I didn’t point it out to him.

He took some keys out of his pocket and unlocked my cell door. He took my wrist firmly and escorted me through the house.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To the most predictable place, considering your outfit.”

“Nothing is predictable when it comes to your insanity.”

He took me to the pool and said, “Go in.”

The gun was casually pointed at me. After trying to object, which did no good, I went down the first rung of the ladder. The water felt weird. It was unusually gentle, light and soft against my legs, as if my skin were numb.

“Continue,” said Damon.

I went down another rung. I swung my foot through the water, which offered little resistance. It didn’t feel as solid as water usually did. It felt the way water might feel in a dream.

It wasn’t until I actually lowered myself into the water that I knew, like an animal who knows to stay away from fire, that I should do everything in my power to avoid going in. But before I had a chance to climb back out, Damon yanked my hands off the rail and I fell backward into the water. And I kept on falling. In truth, I sank, but it felt like I was simply falling.