Just a side note. I have horrifying dreams that become my horrifying fantasies. This is my first attempt at putting these disturbing thoughts into text. I don't condone mistreatment of women, and I hope I do not make light of the sorts of nightmares that people have to live through in reality.
"This isn't a painting", Katy thought to herself, "This is a victory lap."
She swiped the thick brush across the blank canvas brusquely, doubling the brush back deftly with short, upturned strokes. It wasn't anything in particular. After months of focused work, tonight had been an absolute coup. When she'd left the gallery at close, the director told her that a bidding war on "Cloaked in Sunset" - a particularly inspired work that blurred the edges between a portrait and a stunning landscape - had spiked the price to $2200. Her cut, after everything, came to just over 30 grand.
"I can survive on that for a year," she said out loud to no-one but herself, "And be more than ready for the next show." After everything she went through with her parents, and school, this was pure elation.
At 19, Katy had decided that pre-med wasn't for her. Her father, a doctor himself, had expectations that she didn't want any part of. After an illicit trip to Burning Man, she felt she had found herself, dropped out of school and focused on her art. Her parents cut her off entirely, hoping she would come crawling back.
She'd certainly struggled -- couch-surfing, dumpster-diving with her equally broke friends, and sometimes stealing just to get by. But always she focused on the painting. Her own father thought it was nonsense - and constantly reminded her of that fact. Her friend Cally's dad had a small studio and had helped her with brushes, paints and canvas since he'd seen her talent and focus. Now she could sign a lease on an apartment of her own, with a space to work on her own terms. Free from her parents' unreasonable pressure.
At that thought, she'd pressed a little too hard, squeezing two parallel dark rivulets of paint out the sides of the broad brush. She smiled a little, seeing her frustration come out on the canvas like that. Stepping back, she re-imagined it as a river passing through the little forested valley she was depicting. Like all the cards she was dealt, she would make the best of this.
She worried about that a little, though. Never being tied down anywhere kept her overbearing parents at bay. More than once had they showed up unexpectedly with stern demands that she return home with them, resume school, give up everything. They disapproved of the drugs, going to bars, the painting, sleeping with men... they just disapproved of her. Saw her as a problem that could be fixed with enough focused aggression.
Best to find an apartment on a higher floor with a locking communal entrance.
She swapped brushes so she could work the edges of the new river up into a muddy bank, thick with roots. She felt freed of obligation to this piece, but her practiced hand was still managing to tease a certain tonalist, loose and free feeling out of it. She mused with herself about what price she would be able to ask for it but clamped down on the thought. It was easy to fall in love with your work before finishing it. The fantasy always ruins the final product.
She woke early the next morning. The celebration had been fairly low-key in Katy terms, since she had so much to do. She visited the gallery for a meeting with the director to get her check and make plans for future openings. He seemed very eager to get more of her work in the door. After depositing her earnings, and having a minor joy-meltdown about the number of digits in the account, she started calling around to her circle of friends to plan a party at Mouse Trap, their local favorite local dive.
She considered indulging in some new clothes but decided to be frugal--she needed to stretch her windfall as long as possible. Instead, she browsed apartments online, looking for something secure yet affordable near her favorite places.
She found one--a walk-up studio near two of her best friends, within her price range--but its front door opened directly to the street. She tried to picture herself living there, but a tightness crept into her chest. She caught herself holding her breath as memories surged, unbidden, from the recesses of her mind.
Once, she'd been stoned when they knocked on the door. The shocking rush of adrenaline, the way her father's face twisted with recognition--the smell, her bloodshot, glassy eyes. His rage had been instant, incoherent. He grabbed her wrist, tried to drag her to the waiting SUV. The only thing that stopped him was the county police rounding the corner.
The friend she was staying with had called them as soon as things spiraled, but she'd still asked Katy to find somewhere else to stay the next day.
She was fighting for her freedom. But she couldn't be free of him without giving up everything she'd built.
She put all of that out of her mind and tried to enjoy the rest of her evening. A few drinks deep at the Mouse Trap, plus a joint with Tansy in the alley, and the whole situation faded from her mind. That's tomorrow-Katy's problem. Today Katy is busy.
It was almost 2am when she started her walk home, declining a gentlemanly escort from Ricky. Her sublet was only three blocks away and she'd made this trek at night many times without incident. On a Friday night, there were still some people around and she didn't feel unsafe.
That's why the sudden, sharp pain in her right buttock didn't make sense. She stumbled, shocked, and felt for the cause. Her fingers immediately found a smooth plastic rod anchored firmly in her skin. It felt funny, almost, pressed against her jeans, pinning the hem of her shirt to her pocket. With a light tug, it slid out and she brought it in front of her face to see what it was in the streetlight.
A dart. She'd never seen one in person, but she knew what it was. Everyone knew what it was. With a long hypodermic needle, plastic red fletching and a spring-activated plunger, now empty. She struggled to decide what this meant, as the chill of the night air seemed to wash away into a sensation of nothing. She felt as light as air, and her fingers refused to grip the little cylinder anymore. She fell, and didn't seem to care as she was caught. She heard the characteristic sound of a van's sliding door opening, spilling out a hollow blackness that swallowed her whole. A panicked scream bloomed in her chest -- then vanished. The door slammed shut.
She surfaced slowly -- soft, quiet, dark, calm. A cool breeze caressed her skin, stirring a sluggish awareness in her limbs. They felt heavy. Weak. Bruised. Her fingers twitched against the strange, rubbery surface beneath her. A dull ache throbbed in her hip--
And then it hit her.
The dart.
She lurched upright -- or tried to. Panic snapped through her like an electric shock as her head hit a soft impediment above her. She couldn't even bend her legs very much, as whatever she was in was roughly the size of a coffin. A wave of panic slammed into her, thick and suffocating. Her fingers clawed at the walls -- rubbery, padded, unyielding. Like a cheap gymnastics mat. No seams. No handles. No way out. Some sort of vent was centered somewhere behind her head, blowing cool air through the coffin. She heard loud, panicked screaming and slowly realized it was her own voice. From the muffled, dense way the sound deadened in here, no-one could hear her. She took a few long, ragged breaths, trying to find some sort of center. Make a plan. She sensed that she was in a vehicle, taking a winding rough road. The sensation was disorienting.
She carefully found the crease for the lid by squeezing her fingers into a crack in the padding, but couldn't find any purchase there to pry, and the lid seemed fastened into place somehow.
Gentle music started coming from the walls of the coffin, almost imperceptible at first, but rising in volume over time. It was symphonic, grand but calming. Katy laid still for a while, just trying to breathe and not panic anymore. Her throat hurt from screaming, her cuticles were sore from prying, and the spot on her butt throbbed an angry reminder of what had been done to her.
She had no sense of time in the coffin, but after what felt like hours, the music suddenly faded to the background and a pre-recorded voice sprang to life. It was a man's voice, deep, authoritive, but kind and welcoming.
"Welcome, Katy.
You have been given an opportunity for a fresh start.
