To Market

Market 
36a/b West Highland Villas 

LA 

90001

I'd received the note at a black tie event, the kind with miniscule brushetta and cheap champagne. It'd been pressed firmly into my clammy palm by a pouchy man in a red trilby. 'You'll thank me later' he winked. I reread it multiple times to try and jog something in my thirsty mind, but I could not produce a single correlating thought. I went about my usual business that day, I slept, jerked off, ate, read a few scripts - the usual, but from the time I viewed it to well after i'd climbed into bed I could not keep my eyes from darting to the kitchen table, to the deserted section of note which displayed the cryptic address. I decided the next day I'd find out what resided at that address. I'd go to Market. 
    After much confusion, swearing and the eventual irritated abandonment of the Sat Nav I arrived outside a towering and dingy warehouse building. It was surrounded by other such structures but all the others seemed even more extremely desolate and neglected. The door was obviously restricted by a heavy and rusty pad lock. I decided to explore the side of the building to look for an entrance as my inquisitive mind had definitely been aroused. I stalked round the side and down an alley way. Although a dead lead I thought I could definitely hear some kind of muffled voices and pressing my ear against the baking concrete of the building only proved this. 
'Hello?' I yelled, stretching my head back to gaze up the windowless walls. Force of habit I suppose. I was just turning to leave when I heard a strange snuffling to the right of myself. I froze. I felt breath moving the downy hairs on my neck. I began to turn, slowly and apprehensively to view the source. Suddenly a pudgy hand forcefully wrapped a dirty cloth around my gaping mouth. This prevented me from really releasing the scream that had risen from the pit of my somersaulting stomach. Next thing I knew - the world went black. 

'Mr. Elswood?' 

A voice. 

'Bailey?' 

I pried my eyes open, but they didn't stay that way for long, a stabbing pain travelled through the right side of my brain and I had to close them once more, to make the feeling go away. But it didn't. 

'W... Water.' I croaked, extending my hand forward, still entirely unsure of what I'd find. 

'But of course.' the voice rang again, followed by a click. I heard someone shuffle up to me, take my hand, and place the handle of a mug into it. Once again, I attempted to open my eyes, I managed to crease one open a crack. I looked deeply into my mug of water trying to determine it's legitimacy - it's safety. I determined I didn't care, I was too thirsty. I brought it to my lips and drank, it seemed fairly normal if not a little metallic in taste. My head's stabbing pain subsided to a dull ache and I opened my eyes. 

  I was in a huge room of what appeared at first glance to be an abandoned warehouse of some kind. The walls were smudged concrete, the floors followed suit. In one corner was a little divided cubical, I could not see what it contained. There was a blue chipped door with a smashed glass window to the right of where I was sitting on a rickety office chair. I assumed that to be the stairwell. In front of me were two men, a slightly wrinkled face was looming close to me. 

'Better?' he spoke, his voice was that which woke me. He had dark hair and dark eyes. I could find nothing behind them, he seemed almost corpsial in his stare, but the rest of his face was animated and riddled with concern. His face was devoid of facial hair completely except one line extending from his thin lips to the base of his chin. His eyes kept flicking to the metal door on the left of the building, presumably the one I entered through, but they always came back to me. 'I would just like to start by apologizing for having to drug you Mr. Elswood.' he smiled apologetically, cocking his head to the right. 'Its just we always have to with new custom, to check they're not from the police. Which according to your impressive resume, you are not.' He giggled. The sound sickened me. Behind him stood a boy of about sixteen, his long black hair swept partially over his beady eye. He was looking at me with utmost guilt touching his youthful features. Seemingly, he was the one with the chloroform. When I still did not respond to the man's words he lent even closer. From this distance I could make out the hundred or so little craters in his skin. Acne scars, poor man - high school must have been hell. His eyes searched mine desperately for recognition that I could muster coherency, that the experience hadn't broken my brain. I coughed lightly. He shot up.

'Explain.' I spoke frankly.  

'My name is Kazi and I will be at your service today.' He bowed extravagantly. I still had no idea what I was doing here but half out of fear and half out of curiosity I decided not to ask. 'Now for the matter of the payment you've already paid sir, we received a payment for a Mr. Elswood a few days ago sir.' I stared at him in utter bewilderment. How could anyone have known I'd be here when I didn't even know? Then I thought about the man who'd given me the card, his seedy chuckle, his seedy nature... his suggestive 'thank me later.'. It must have been him. 

'Oh well' I coughed again, awkwardly this time 'Thank him for me.' 

'No need sir' Kazi chirped 'Your happiness will be thanks enough. Now, shall we meet the women?' And suddenly I understood, I was in a brothel. It all made sense. I'd been to them before but never inside the US. I began feeling excited, the jittery pounding of my fluttering heart laced with a nauseating shame. 

'Yes, sure' I breathed. He motioned for me to get up and I did and began shakily following him towards the staircase door. Leaving the teen in our wake, we pushed through it and walked up the dirty stairs, reaching the upper floor in what felt like an eon. Upstairs was exactly the same as the previous room in structure but the contents could not have been more different. 

    There were about nine burly men occupying it, each one was accompanied by a woman - on a metal leash. The woman were all of above average weight. That puzzled me in its own right because I always assumed sex slaves would be starved. All the men appeared to be of the same race as Kazi and the boy below but there was no way to definitively find out. I put the weight of the girls down to a racial difference in appeal I could not understand. Maybe bigger was better in the east. Kazi walked away from me towards another man standing staring at the women too, except he wasn't gawking at them the way I was - confusion etched into everyone of my deceivingly youthful chemically altered features - instead he stood resolutely, his face a lost language, impossible to read. I tried my hardest, straining to get a good look at him. But it was impossible. It displayed years of practised alexithymia. Kazi spoke in what I recognised as broken and flawed mandarin to him. He nodded back and pointed at a girl in the corner, the biggest of the bunch, fair skinned with a pretty face. The kind you just knows tries too hard in the sack. I admired this man, longed for his composure, possibly due to my ineptitude to possess any in the same moment. I smiled at him shakily as he exited the room, the red headed woman being dragged behind him, he did not return the gesture. Next it was Kazi's turn to avert his questioning my way;
'Which do you want sir?' 
    I gazed dumbstruck at the gaggle of women, every one so far removed from my usual fancy. I thought if I was going to do this, I'd do it so it was incomparable, so that when I returned to my tedious monotony I'd be devoid of reminders. I noticed that one of the girls, a Latina beauty, was not whimpering softly, struggling against her chains like the rest. She sat staring up at her captor in a violent rage. I chose her. Although not my usual taste i could feel a familiar soft throb as I thought of the prospect of dominating her, of staring into those hateful eyes whilst I enjoyed her. You may say that my desire for her had something to do with how every woman I sleep with in the day to day are so grateful to be with me due to my status that there's not even a hint of real emotion. You'd be right. Although they may be beautiful, although they may fulfil some kind of fantasy, quench a raw animal urge, the woman I usually associate myself with are never genuine, they're too numbed by Botox, narcissism and prescription meds. I just long for a spark, real passion. I wanted, in that moment, to have sex without the feeling we were performing for an audition. 
    The Latina vision had beautiful yellow irises, short autumn hair and flawless caramel skin. Her body type was more Texas than LA but I didn't mind - it was her eyes I coveted, her skin, her breasts. I nodded at her and Kazi followed my eyes, chuckling in agreement. He ticked his head to the side and clicked his fingers at the guard. The girl, seeing this, began clawing and struggling against the binds to no avail. I remember the way she looked at me reminded me of a prostitute I'd enjoyed once whilst on location in Japan. That girl however was younger, more fragile. But in her eyes there was something akin, it flashed trough her in the throws, just momentarily. I barely had time to register it then, before it disappeared for good, I saw it in this woman too, in the depths of her furious gaze as she was dragged away, face set like concrete. But it stayed with her, I could survey it how I wished. I wondered to myself what about this situation was similar to consensually throat fucking a hooker, to equate the same emotion. I suppose I didn't really want to know.
'Follow me please Mr. Elswood.' Kazi turned and walked back towards the stairwell and in a giddy daze I followed him. We walked upstairs and as I turned the corner of the abused staircase I heard a clank and a muffled shriek and realized the girl was following in our wake. 
    We reached an upstairs room which was once again a replica of the first, spacious, practically empty accompanied by the pungent smell of metal and burning plastic.There was no bed. I looked around a little disgruntled, I decided the floor will have to do. 
'Right' I spoke, I caught my reflection in a dirty widow, I shook my hand through my hair, elegantly dishevelling it. I was disgustingly proud of myself today, I looked my best in a corduroy shirt and freshly pressed jeans. I thought that the bags sitting happily under my tired eyes only improved my look, giving me a haunty ambiance. My strong jaw was freshly shaven and my lips were properly moisturized  Maybe she'd want me back, if I was gentle enough. Maybe we'd fall in love. Maybe. i turned to Kazi, clapping my hands together in an awkward manner. They did not turn to leave, instead the man holding the girl said;
'Did you want us to get started?' I was even more confused in this moment than I had been throughout the entire day. 
'You?' I spluttered. The man looked at Kazi apprehensively and Kazi looked at me in happiness and awe. 
'You'd like to do it yourself?' he chortled. 
'Well... Isn't that the idea?' I scratched my head in turmoil. 
'Okay sir, it's your choice.' He clicked his fingers at the man who handed Kazi a tied up black roll which Kazi then presented to me. 'You'll be needing that' he smiled. Kazi clicked again and this time I was handed the chain that belonged to the girl. It was wrapped tightly around her wrists, making it near impossible for her to fight. Her ankle shackles impeded a speedy escape. 'We'll wait just outside the door, we're armed so if she tries to leave we'll get her. Just call for us when you're done.' he grinned broadly and exited offering me another low bow. Soon, it was just me and her. 
    I opened up the roll, wondering what it contained, and saw several gleams of silver. Knives. Knives and tape and a handgun. I began questioning why I was here. The girl I was holding saw what the roll contained too. She began to wail loudly and relentlessly in my ear, feebly repelling the chains binding her and leaning far repelled from me. Her howls cut through me. I could not deal with crying, ever since I was a child and my father left. My mother would stay up all night and cry incessantly. Her lament would travel through the entire house, cutting through the paper thin walls and overpowering the Dido CD she'd put on to cover the noise. At first her howls tore me, imbued within me a kind of desperate longing to make them stop,to heal her and dry her tears. But after months passed, after she stopped getting out of bed, after I had to grow up - to look after myself - they began to anger me. Every sob was a pebble thrown at my face, flick, flick, flick. Sob, sob, sob. They built up until I couldn't take it anymore. I ran through the house and straight into her bedroom; 'Stop!' I screamed 'Just stop!' I shook her like she was a broken clock, hit her like she was a static TV - I threw her around in the hope that it would fix her, in the hopes she'd rejuvenate to her past self. My real mother. I jogged her until her bawling stopped and then I left her, to recover alone. In the morning I found her hanging from the shower rod. In the silence that the screams had left she heard herself, heard her illness for what it truly was - and she heeded it's call.  
   That night changed me. At the age of 13 I developed a hatred for that brand of self expression. I divorced my wife for crying when she lost our baby. She always thought it was from the trauma of losing a life that belonged to us both. I let her believe that, out of kindness. But now this girl, her shrill ululating wrapping around my head and suffocating me, stealing all the air from my futile lungs. Her weeping was everywhere it was instilling something inside my chest, creating a kind of hollow vacuum, a feeling i knew from childhood - i felt tears begin to vindictively prick against my widen eyes. 
'Stop it.' I spoke, eyes to the ceiling, blinking hard. Still her sobbing persisted. I hated her for this. Despised her solely for creating emotion within me that I hadn't felt for over twenty years. 'Stop it' I screamed, my fist colliding with her screeching mouth. 'Stop it' I repeated over and over as hit after hit indented her pretty face. I thought about the people I worked with, the people I worked for. Every foster family that didn't want me. I thought about my father finding me after I found fame, I thought about how I didn't punish him for what he did to my mother, I thought about the paella we shared instead. I thought about those nights sitting by my fireplace screaming at myself in the mirror, blaming my reflection for my mother's death. When I see her face in my dreams her ghost blames me too, it howls at me, condemning me, accusing me, - haunting me. My fist flying, my brain flooded with every bad thought I'd ever had, every slash of the razor I'd endured in my teenage years, every bottle of gin I'd downed since I could afford to buy them. I thought about the years of self-medicating, to cloud the corners of my mind where the doubt festered. I drank, sniffed, smoked, to confuse my demons, get them lost on the way to the surface. I went in to acting so I could learn to pretend to be okay, before those lessons I couldn't hide my trauma. Then I learnt how to study the people on TV, to mimic their smiles, to mirror their content. Now I couldn't hide my angst, my pure fiery rage. It was a shaken bottle of a carbonated beverage, and she'd loosened the lid. Everything that had ever irritated me, angered me, upset me, came flooding back and gushing through my fist onto this girl's face. Nothing was enough anymore, I needed this to subdue the rage. Every parking ticket, every rejection, every damn bruschetta. 
   I stopped to catch my breath and in doing so my anger subsided, the feeling returned to my fist and I could feel a throbbing in my knuckles, and somewhere else, pressing against my jeans. I turned away from her crumpled form in shame and disgust. I could hear her spluttering and moaning on the ground, her face unrecognizable, only her eyes visible through all the bruising - the yellow in them burning through the trickling blood, the brow scowling at me with purest hate. I waited for the situation to subside and then I headed for the door. 
'Kazi.' I whined, regret and fear was coursing through my entire body. I ran towards the door. 'Kazi!' I screamed. I turned to see the Latina still on the floor, trying desperately to stand. Kazi appeared with his usual dead-eyed smile.
'Yes sir?' 
'What do we do, with her I mean. I can't have the press finding out about this.' I was breathing heavily, fear gripping my heart. Kazi just smiled softly and clicked his fingers once more. In walked the man who'd previously been guarding the girl I'd just disfigured. He walked straight over to her and lifted her from the ground so she was leaning on his solid form. I felt relief mingled in with the shame. Kazi picked up his cell phone, dialled and said;
'Floor 4 - Ready for disposal', a few tense minutes later with nothing but the sounds of the girl's increasingly heavy breathing to occupy my mind in walked two more beastly men. One was carrying a chainsaw, the other a plastic bag. 

     I thought perhaps naively that they would kill her before they dismembered her and maybe that they'd do so in a separate room. I was wrong. I watched her scream like a banshee as the chainsaw whirled into life. Kazi brought it down so it was almost touching her soft flesh, she was yelping like an abandoned puppy. Her struggle so impressive I once again glimpsed the fighter I'd chosen from the herd downstairs, her spirit and desire to live the very thing that had glued her coffin together.She was the unexpected re-ignition of a trick birthday candle, a happy surprise when the magic has faded. I felt myself growing hard once more. I'd become used to it by now and the riddling of guilt that accompanied it and by this point I could just enjoy the sensation. Kazi raised the chainsaw above his head and the girl winced as she saw it fly back down - her screeching ceased in mute acceptance of her dismal fate but when the pain didn't come she opened her eyes once more, perplexed, to again find the chainsaw poised above her trembling extremity. She began sobbing softly, returned anew to the extinguished tired flame she'd been previously. I despised her. Kazi brought down the chainsaw once more and the girl died a coward, not screaming through the absolute agony of the weapon wrathfully intruding her limbs but instead just quietly vomiting over her left shoulder. It didn't take long for him to divide her into equal ample pieces of taunt flesh.

He lead me into a side room. I assumed it's previous function to have been some kind of office, It was seedy in nature like the rest of the warehouse, he motioned for me to sit and then bowing low and offering me a toothy grin he exited the room. I was not the only person in there. Across from me sat on a faded and worn velour arm chair was the composed Asian businessman I'd seen in the first room. He had tears running silently down his gaunt cheeks. He'd lost his sultry ambiance displaced instead by an emotional anguish. He'd lost something else too, something us English speaking folk have no precise word for, but something the Chinese refer to as; 'tong zhen'. I watched him for a while, sniffling and sobbing and wondered briefly about my humanity, I wondered why I didn't feel this way, why my soul was still intact. Maybe it was the search for soul that had lead me here, and the absence of one that made me stay. I, a witness of lambs led to slaughter, a shepherd to their demise, an accomplice to their end. I had no qualms about it, no cracked conscious, no torn ethics. The more I thought about my lack of worry, the more worried I became. Kazi returned and spoke again in awkwardly hedged Chinese to the gentleman. He shook his head furtively and began crying even harder, a line of snot ran from his pinking nose and entered his protesting mouth. I averted my gaze, staring instead at my tensed fists. Kazi flicked his shifty eyes at me and smiled apologetically and then said plainly to the man, in English; 'You don't get your money back.' the man's sobs grew quiet and his frown hardened, his face crumpling like the note that lead me here. He morphed once more into the man I'd respected upon my arrival, he wiped his face softly with a silk handkerchief retrieved from his breast pocket, stood resolutely and followed Kazi from the room. Alone with my own thoughts I tried to retain them onto topics devoid of sentiment; dry cleaning, football, auditions. Anything but what I was doing here, how I'd come to even be here- no queries of why, who or how. Just mundane musings. To further my confusion was the undeniable question of what I was still doing here. What purpose could remain, the deed had been done - the woman was dead. Just as I was about to get up to leave Kazi returned into the room. 'It's ready Mr. Elswood.' he giggled, the sound eerie and sickening. The next room he lead me too was entirely barren of anything with the exception of a small rickety table and a lavish ruby throne cuddled up next to it facing a plate with a single steak on it. Food. I'd completely neglected it and I was so glad for it, grateful to Kazi for providing it as in my excitement and apprehension I'd neglected my body's most basic necessity. I walked over to the table and Kazi beamed like a proud mother as I sat down and placed the spotless cloth napkin delicately in my lap. I lifted the utensils and began carving away. I lifted the morsel to my desperate lips and bit down on it. Chewing on the meat I was impressed by its flavor and it's texture, I marvelled at the intensity of the spices. I smiled softly, and practically giggled through my glee, my body sighed in relief. 'Why this is delectable.' I chuckled, Kazi's smile extended so his eyes crinkled in sheer satisfaction. 'I'm glad you're enjoying her.' he beamed. Her? 'We have the best chefs in all of LA working in our kitchens, straight from Paris.' he adopted a faux french accent on the last word. Her. I gagged. I stared horrified at the remains of the flesh I'd just demolished. I stopped mid swallow so the meat had no choice but to uncertainly slip slowly down my throat, unsure of where to go - out or down. It cankered against the back of my heaving tonsils and I was painfully aware of it, it changed from a deliciously moist segment to a slimy blob of sin. I was repulsed at myself for being so stupid, for not realizing immediately. I had a decision to make. It is this moment my therapist is grateful for, this moment that signs the pay cheques I bestow to her after each session - this moment that haunts me. That which makes me heave on a fragile morning. Makes me drink on a low Tuesday. Makes me lose sleep. I swallowed. Then I began on the rest of the steak. After all, it was a free meal. I savoured every mouthful, thinking all the while about her soft skin, her amble flesh, her shining garnet eyes. Marvelling at how much better a food than person she made. I polished up my horrifying feast and left silently. Kazi walked me out, assuring me with a bow that I could return any time. On the drive home, between the monotonous drones of the chirpy Sat Nav, I couldn't keep my mind from a single invasive thought; she didn't taste anything like chicken.