Blossoms of the Dark

XLV Selene: Proposition

I stare at the waning crescent moon shining outside my bedroom window.

It's 2:38 a.m. I'm in bed. And I'm not alone.

I feel the man's leg thrown over mine, arm wrapped around my waist, and face buried in my neck. He didn't rape me just once tonight. He went for round after round that I stopped counting after ten. What difference did it make? When he felt the need to sleep, I suggested that he call his driver to take him home. He refused, saying that he wanted to spend the entire night with me.

Here I am now. Serving as a body pillow for the man I despise to my core.

I can feel his steady breathing. He's asleep. Slowly, I remove his leg and arm from mine. I slide my neck away from his face and get out of the bed. Quietly, I open my wardrobe and take out my night robe. I walk into the bathroom and stare at myself. The only difference I can detect from tonight's rapes and previous rapes is that I have some more bruises and bites. I walk into the shower and twist the knob toward the hot water end.

Once the water is so hot that steam billows from the showerhead, I begin to cry. I cry and cry. I don't make a sound, but I let the tears stream down my cheeks and mix with the shower water. I sit down and clutch my knees to my chest. I rock myself back and forth, back and forth. I stay like this for a long time.

When I regain some sense of calm, I rise and wash my hair and body. Clean myself of his filth, if that were possible. I lather soap and scrub myself raw. As clean as I can possibly get, I turn the knob back and leave the shower. Wearing the night robe again, I open the bathroom door back into the bathroom, but immediately a void opens before me. Someone pushes me from behind and into the void.

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I crash onto a hard surface. It's made of wood. I lift myself and look around. I see shelves of wine bottles, a bartender's counter, and bar stools. They are illuminated by yellow lighting. I see a brick wall in front of me, and directly in front of that wall is a monitor that's turned on to a blank screen. I'm in a bar. There aren't any customers.

I turn around and see three men. Or what I presume to be men. One has shoulder-length dusty blue hair. A plaster hand covers his face. Similar plaster hands wrap around his arms. From what little I see of his face, he has red eyes and wrinkles all around. He's wearing red sneakers, ankle-length black pants, and a long-sleeved v-neck shirt. The other figure is nicely dressed. A white dress shirt, slate gray waistcoat, black dress pants, striped black-and-grey tie, closed-toe shoes, and a metal brace resting on the collar. But his hands and head, or what are supposed to be hands and a head, are swirling dark purple mist. The eyes are two undulating yellow orbs. I can't detect any facial features. The last figure is familiar. My eyes widen when I place him. He's the chauffeur. That color of hair. That color of eyes. That hairstyle and those glasses. He was the one who pushed me into that void. I am too shocked to say anything comprehensible. After a few moments, all I manage to utter is, "You. How?"

Seeing my stunned expression, he smirks. "My name is Okuta Kagero, but you can call me Giran. I'm a broker. I connect applicants with employers."

I don't like the way he says "applicants" and "employers." So far, all I know is that he is responsible for bringing me here and the "employers" certainly don't want to hire me for working at the front desk.

Never taking my eye off of him, I say, "I'm not an applicant, as you so put it. So tell me, why did you bring me here?"

He doesn't answer my question. Instead, the man with the hands covering his face and arms responds. "I am the one who wanted you here. You see, I want your help with something."