Red

"Bitch, kneel."
 
That was the command she was given as she took her place on the raised dais in the center of the room. This platform felt soft under her bare feet. A memory foam about 3 inches thick covered it.  She stood firm under the repeated command, flexing her toes in the foam...imagining (remembering?) all the memories this foam must really hold. How often had she looked in her mailbox and saw the small black box, embossed with her name in gold filligree on it's lid. "Rose." She marvelled the first time she opened it; a linenpaper business card lay inside, and an envelope. The card, an address to a castle like mansion in the far north suburbs of her home. The envelope...contained everything that she would ever need to sway her toward actually showing up to such a scene. She was pained and torn. Thought to go to the police, but dared not. She realized that the person who could go to such lengths to have her... KNEW that she would comply. He had NO doubt of the limits of her resolve.  He knew her. And his sly, evil humor...exemplified in a yellow Post-it note on the inside lid of the box. "All the better to EAT you with, my dear..."

The thoughts of those contents, and that phrase, burned at her soul. Pained her more than anyone would ever know. Her eyes threatening to drip wet fire upon her bare breasts. "NO", she would not. She would not give in to tears again, never again. Once a month for the past eight months had she arrived at the mansion.  Ten masked men awaited her arrival...rich, masked men if the cars in the parking lot were an indicator. And nine other women dressed as she was. Naked with only loose cloaks covering the bruises and wounds they had long suffered before her arrival. The world as Rose knew it had come to an abrupt end. She was at first horrified and numb from shock.  The next time, pleading for mercy.  The Third, humiliated beyond all her previous imaginings. Fourth, she accepted that 'mercy' was only a memory for her now. The Fifth time, she moved beyond the pain.  Beyond humiliation. She was strangely aroused and hated herself for it. Sixth time...a new tormenter arrived. His actions somehow reversed the fate of her mind.  She was inspired...she saw an escape...and more. An opportunity for vengeance. By the Seventh session she had done her research. She gave them everything they wanted and more.  She PLEADED with them to give her more...and they did Battered, stretched, bitten, every orifice and inch of skin swollen. Rose was resolute in her course. This resolution required commitment.  The pain fueled her, she relished and required it now. And finally on this the Eighth experience where she had put her soul and body in the hands of these...creatures (she could no longer see Humanity in their eyes)...she was ready.

To her primary tormenter, a man named Alexander Fenris, she said two words that would forever change their dynamic....and surely end at least one of their lives. And perhaps those of every person in this room.

Rose said, "Bitch..........Make Me."

"I hate this shit!" Rose drew her hood tighter against the wind and rain. Every Friday night, for the past 3 years, she had made this 9pm trek. Since her parents had died in that terrible tragedy at Twin Peaks, responsibility for her grandmother had fallen to her.  Shouldn't have been such at terrible task, but it was. Six years ago, Malena Ashe Cordova was a strong and handsome woman for her age. Rose fondly remembered the strong, sleek, silver haired woman who travelled the world and got into adventures that would make Indiana Jones blanch.  Always the scent of some strange dust or spice in her 'lucky' Morehouse College sweatshirt every time she hugged her beloved Rose. Never an explanation of her travels (or why this eastern European woman had a fondness for an African American university), but she always brought back some trinket from her journeys. Not the kind typically found in airport duty-free stores... more like the type of items that probably should have been delivered to a museum... unless they were "removed" from such places. In her flights of fancy, Rose imagined that her grandmother Malena was an international thief or spy. The public and secret police forces of the world always a step behind the wiley Malena Ashe.

But all she KNEW for certain is that her grandmother had a routine upon her returns. She always dropped to her knees, arms outstretched, eyes watering. And as Rose runs into her arms, Grandma grabs the back of her head with one hand... the other arm wrapped around Rose's back.  Then the shower... a mixture of tears, laughter, and kisses. She felt like the most special person in her grandma's world. But, the tears... they never seemed completely like the joyful kind. A young Rose instinctively knew better than to ask. It was better to validate whatever emotion prompted those tears with the only thing that Grandma really wanted in return: "I love you, Grandma...I missed you sooooo much."  And then, everything changed. Malena Ashe Cordova went on a long trip...her longest yet. Rose counted, 315 days, almost a full year had her grandmother been abroad. No post cards, no trinkets, and no news reports. Yes, after the sixth month, Rose and her parents truly feared the worst. Websites were scanned, missing persons reports filed, CNN watched religiously.  Each hoping to catch a glance of Grandma Malena dashing by in some 3rd world hellhole. But no.  Not even that.

On the night of the 315th day, 19 year old Rose lay on her bed in the basement of her parents house. A few years earlier the entire space had been converted into a sort of apartment for her. She was enrolled in a local college and never found a reason to leave the safety of her parents' nest.  Partially fueled by the hopes that Grandma would pop up and she'd be there when it happened. Her wish was finally granted. The doorbell rang. Rose's parents were out on a date night, and so Rose reluctantly padded out of her lair and headed for the front door.  Checking the peephole first and Rose was immediately struck by the view. She looked into the heart of a volcano. Rose violently pulled away from the view, and tried to think. The arc sodium street lamps cast their yellow glow through the glass peep hole and must have reacted with whatever else was fouling the view. She called out, "Hello...who is it?" No answer came, but she thought she heard a...wet?...shifting, of sorts, behind the door.  Her senses in overdrive, a very small part of her remembered all the horror movies. How the foolish teenaged heroine always tripped...always backed into a closet instead of looking first...always opened the door that EVERYONE knew damned well shouldn't be opened.  That small voice tried to scream warnings to her. But Rose' fate was sealed. Because she had just heard the impossible...a voice...somehow connected to that disturbing wet shifting. She heard a whisper of her own name. All she could think was GRANDMA!   She was back and was holding some precious bauble on the other side of the peephole!  Unthinkingly, Rose opened the door. Hoping beyond hope for a ruby...her rational voice screaming in horror in her head.  No ruby awaited...only blood.
 
Involuntarily shivering against the memory of that night, or perhaps the cold of this one, Rose trudged on. After the Incident, her parents had moved Grandma Malena to a small home just a ten minute walk from their home on the edge of the city. The fiercely independent woman refused to be confined to some 'facility' or their offer to come stay with them in the converted basement. She may not be the woman she once was, but pity and charity were not on her menu. She chose a small cottage style home nestled in the woods north of the city. It always seemed like a fairy tale cabin to Rose, especially with the ominous view of a tall castle like mansion about 10 miles north of Grandma's house.  Looming over the forest like a curse made of granite... majestic and forbidding.  The only problem with the location was that it was inaccessible by anything less than a 4 wheel drive vehicle. That suited Malena Ashe just fine, but played hell with anyone making deliveries or stocking her supplies. Yes, since the Incident there would be precious few times that Ms. Cordova would leave her new home. So at first her parents, and now Rose herself, were the primary link that Grandma had to the outside world.  Well...except for the roses of course. The ones Grandma, tried to destroy in the fireplace. The ones that she tried to hide from her granddaughter's view.

At first Rose thought it was merely air freshener, a homemade potpourri to give the old cottage some life. But one day she saw the smoke rising from the chimney as she approached. She peeped in the window to find her Grandma ferociously ripping the bulbs from thorny stems and throwing them in the fire...tears streaming down her face. But no care given to torn hands from the thorns. These reminded her of the tears on Grandma's face when she returned from her adventures.  Tears of true sorrow and despair.  New roses somehow appeared every month. From who, was the question...because lord knows Grandma didn't leave the cottage to get them herself.  Lord knows...

Today, with a half mile to go, Rose saw no smoke from the chimney.  Her backpack got heavier as the rain soaked it. Thankfully she'd prepared by wrapping the groceries and toiletries in a plastic bag before stuffing her pack. But all she had for protection from the elements herself was Grandma's Morehouse hoodie...which felt like it weighed 300 pounds from all the rain it had absorbed. "College graduate and fucking moron," she thought of herself.  Sighing heavily she continued her journey... equally annoyed by the Harry & David's fruit basket that weighed down her left hand. In her genius she hoped to "help" Grandma outside tonight and they could stargaze together. A sort of midnight picnic. But the weather had other plans apparently. "Fuck rain...and fuck apples!", she exclaimed out loud. A chuckle.   No, that was just the beginning.  The chuckle erupted into full blown laughter, echoing despite the sounds of the storm. She stopped in her tracks, dropped the basket in the mud and circled wearily, trying to find the source.

In due time the laughter ceased and she saw a man on the path ahead. A tall, very powerfully built Black man. An older gentleman by the looks of him. "Why did I think 'gentleman'??" Rose thought to herself.  Perhaps that was the aura he projected?  FULLY prepared for the weather with mud boots, full body rain suit, and...strangely...a long English style umbrella to boot. Why the umbrella?  Apparently, because he did not want to wear head gear.  Uncovered she say his very low cut afro that was pure white in color.  Almost shocking because his face looked so young! His presence and demeanor said 60...his face said 40...maybe. Medium complexion and a very disarming smile...she smiled back. And immediately stopped herself! "Who the fuck is this and why is he here and why is he laughing and walking TOWARD me?" He stopped as if reading her mind.  "I'm very sorry for intruding, miss.  But 'Fuck rain and fuck apples' absolutely slayed me." Again with the smile. "My name is Alexander Fenris...I live nearby and was just out for a stroll." Over his shoulder...still no smoke.  He moved a step closer. "You should not be alone on a night like this.  Can I escort you to your destination? We can call to let them know your situation, if you like." Out of an inner pocket he produced a cell phone. Seeing the caution and distrust on her face, he outstretched both hands toward her. Umbrella in one, ready to protect her from the storm. Phone in the other, a link to safety...or at least the illusion of it.  His own head getting wet now.  Rivulets of rain streaming down his face...over his lips and cheeks.  Vaguely, as if drunk, she remembered Grandma Malena...she thought of Grandma's legs on that night, so long ago. Her sanity screamed out from its hidden space...once again she ignored it. She stepped toward his charm, his protection from the storm, the calm and amused authority in his tone...and his teeth. She idly wondered how they'd look biting an apple.

Drenched. The only word that fit when describing her current situation. And you can use whatever definition of that word fits...they all applied. Rose stole glances at her "protector," each time absorbing more of his features. As if painting a portrait of him in her mind.  Almost comical considering how covered his form was against the rain. But what she could see burned a lasting imprint in her mind and stoked a smoldering heat low in her belly. Moon and stars blocked by the heavy clouds, only flashes of lightning illuminated the powerful curve of his jaw...the thick and sensual lips...those eyes. They penetrated her with a knowledge, familiarity, and humor which seemed highly inappropriate yet strangely comforting. She wanted him to know her...already she was sure of this.  But the speed and ease of this on his behalf scared her to her core. This was too easy for him. Lightning flashed again. The flaws and scars on his broad forehead and cheeks ignited. Their highlights brought to mind an ancient Spartan shield. Battered and pocked but unyielding in strength and purpose. Everything about him was precise and confident. In summary, she had never seen a man more DELIBERATE and SURE. As if he'd already seen his story written and KNEW that he would win it all in the end. "Could I at least get your name, young lady?" She horrifically realized that she'd been staring at him as they walked, and she'd never said a word. Immediately rebuking and gathering herself she replied, "Forgive me, I'm not feeling my best. I'm Rose."

"Where are we headed, Rose?"  Why did everything this man said seem to have a hidden meaning?  Perhaps it was just the creepiness of the situation and the night at hand...surely that. "My grandmother's home is right up the road and so you don't think me totally rude, I thank you very much for escorting me the rest of the way."   "No problem at all, but I must say I'm very glad you didn't outright run for the hills when you heard me laughing. Only afterward did I realize how it might appear to you. Most don't trust strangers, and for good reason most of the time. But I can tell you have a streak of adventure in you," he smiled. "Walking alone in the woods, no matter the destination, some might say you were 'daring' an adventure to come your way."  "Is that what you are, Mr. Fenris....an adventure?" Rose could have smacked herself for being so bold, but the words hung in the air between them nonetheless. The smile melted from his face and was replaced with something she couldn't identify. "You're not quite ready for that answer, sweet Rose. But when you are, perhaps you'll find me on the road again. By the way, we've arrived at your grandmother's house." Rose realized that they stood about ten steps from the cabin's front door.  "Thank you for your company, Mr. Fenris. I would invite you in, but apparently my grandmother is resting and I wouldn't want to disturb her." Fenris handed Rose his umbrella and replied, "Or course, my dear. Give my best to Malena when she wakes up." He began to turn away. "Malena?   You know my Grandma? Oh, yes, you are neighbors after all," she replied. At first hoping that he was the one who brought Grandma's flowers, and then remembering the fate of those roses. She shuddered involuntarily. "Yes, Rose...I know her well."  And with that he turned and melted back into the shadows.

Rose fumbled for her keys and walked hurriedly toward the door.   Opening it, she peered inside. No lights were on. No hum from the powerful generator in the shed behind the cottage. No Grandma.  Fumbling her way to the kitchen, she found a flashlight under the sink. Scanning every corner of the cottage was an easy task, and one that was completely unfruitful. It appeared that her grandmother was gone...but she knew that wasn't possible. Not just unlikely, but impossible. The evidence of which sat empty beside Malena's bed.

The prosthetic legs. The wheelchair.

The physical, clinical reminders of the horror Rose saw when she opened the door to her parents' house those years ago. A barely conscious Grandma Malena.  Naked and bleeding on the ground. Her legs below mid thigh, a mangled mess that only brought to mind a vague memory of what those long athletic limbs used to be and what purpose they held.  To propel Malena Ashe Cordova to all corners of the globe. To elevate her high above any alleged peers or conquerers. In many ways the legs were the essence of Malena.  And they were brutally taken from her. A car accident? Trampled by horses? No. None of these. She never told anyone what happened, not even the police at the hospital.  But there was a trail from the curb in front of her parents's home all the way to the front door. A trail of blood, that could only mean that she was deposited on that curb.  That someone or someones put her there like refuse on the side of the road.  And Grandma crawled the rest of the way home.

And somehow for some unknowable reason...she was crawling again. Somewhere. Or she was carried.

Darkness. The smell of dampness and desperation. Fingers slowly stretching out. Seeking evidence of her surroundings, Malena Ashe Cordova felt a latticework design under her the pads of her fingers...immediately she knew.  Woven rattan or perhaps bamboo strips, softened and threaded through and around each other.  She lay face down on it, her cheeks and breasts feeling the stripes of the simple "X" patterned weave.  This mat was a pallet on the cold concrete of the floor. Ornate and precisely made, belying it's simplicity of shape and function.  Specially chosen (by Him) to be her only oasis. Her only refuge from the harshness that was to be her life...for 315 days. She learned to savor this woven mat. Despite the fact that it was barely a half inch in thickness, she felt a near orgasmic relief when she could lay upon it at the end of her daily "use." Her senses so highly attuned that she could feel the cushion of it, as it compressed under her weight.  How the hard strips softened due to her sweat and body heat.  It changed composition. Molded itself to her, day by day....as He had molded her to Himself. And despite herself now, she was comforted as her fingers traced the impression that her body had made. Her tongue snaked out to touch the spot where so many of her tears had pooled.  The salt, rot, and humiliation flooded her tastebuds. Malena was home.