#on easter

You shake your head, telling yourself you're being foolish, and open the door of the bathroom, walking out, but then you stop, freezing in place and looking around you, panic flooding cold through your body, your chest tight. Because this isn't the same place, it can’t be, this isn't the well-lit foyer you entered into the bathroom from. This is a dim corridor, with dark, thick carpet and the walls painted red and when you glance back behind you, you gasp to see that there's no longer a door there. You press on the wall, convinced it must be just hidden in a trick of some kind, but the surface is solid beneath your hands, and you don't know what to think.

You're not drunk, you know that, because you haven't even had a beer tonight, and you definitely haven't taken anything, so there’s nothing that might bend your perception of reality in even the slightest way. Which means you're here, you tell yourself, that this is real, whatever it is that's going on, and so all you have to do, you decide, is find your way back, in time for the rest of the show.

You swallow nervously, heading warily down the corridor, your footsteps landing silent in the carpet underneath your shoes, and when you turn the corner, you're suddenly in a room, the floor covered in a swirling checkerboard pattern that makes you feel a little nauseous to even look at.

"Hello," someone says, and when you glance across there's a man sprawled on a too-small couch. You recognize him as one of the performers from earlier in the evening but you can't remember his name. London, you think... Peter or Paul or something? He's dressed in white, wearing a top hat and sunglasses with a circular pattern on the lenses, and while the whole bejewelled codpiece thing might be kind of off-putting, he seems sincere enough when he smiles at you.

"Hi there," you say, and he stands up, his hat almost hitting the oddly low ceiling.

"Are you lost?" he asks, kindly.

"I think I am," you say, and yes, you must be. "I don't want to be late.”

"No, you don't want that," he replies. "What if I show you the way?" He bows slightly, in some strange imitation of gallantry, one hand behind his back, the other in front of him.

"I would appreciate that," you tell him with an awkward laugh, deciding you must simply have wandered into the backstage area, that this is a set they're using for filming, maybe even some kind of interactive experience as part of the taping.

"Come with me," he says, walking backwards, beckoning to you, grinning so wide it's almost unnerving, and you hesitate, but you don't know what else to do, so you follow him.

And you've barely started before you could swear the room starts to move around you, black and white stripes turning into spirals that blur enough you're dizzy, every step an effort and you close your eyes, uncertain if it's you or the floor that's swaying, unsteady under your feet. "No," you hear London say, and he grabs hold of your hand, pulling you along, moving fast enough that you can hardly even keep up. "We can't be late, remember?" he reminds you, and yes, you think, all in a rush, because there was something, something you're supposed to do, somewhere you're meant to be.

Your heart beats faster, racing away from you, and you feel as if you're falling, but just when you think you can't go any further, everything stops, still and silent, and you breathe in. London lets go of your hand, and you can smell earth, rich and damp, and when you open your eyes, everything is dark.

But then there's a light, and you squint for a moment, your vision adjusting until you see a black rabbit in a wooden cage, its nose twitching as it seems to look at you, curious and bold.

"Hello there," says a voice, smoothly polished but with a vague undertone of threat. It's a man, sitting on what could almost be a throne, if it weren't made of something like tree roots that rise up around him, sharp and majestic.

He's wearing a suit, and sunglasses, and he looks like someone else, you're sure, but you can't think who.

"Well, well, Mr. London," he says. "And what have you brought to me this fine evening?"

"This," London replies, presenting you with a flourish, "is Alice."

You frown, and say, "That's not my name." But neither of them seem to hear you. Someone laughs, and when you look over, the rabbit in the cage is gone, replaced by a small man in a black luchador costume. His eyes glitter at you as he rocks back and forth, smiling, and you know you should leave this place but you're not at all certain you can remember how you even got here.

“Alice," says the man in the suit, enunciating the word with some relish. "How very apt."

"Does she... please you?" London asks, bowing slightly, obsequious.

"Why, yes." The man nods once, firmly. "Yes, I believe she does."

"Then I hope you will recall that favor, when the time comes."

"Perhaps I will." The man in the suit stares at you, his gaze steady and unblinking as he says, "You may leave us now Mr. London."

"Of course," replies London, and before you can breathe, let alone speak, he's gone.

"I..." you start, fearful, because you don't want to stay here, it isn’t safe, it can’t be, but the man in the suit stands up, moving towards you. He takes out a silver pocket watch, holding it up, and it swings back and forth in front of your eyes like the pendulum on an old-fashioned clock.

Tick tock, says a voice, soft in your ear.

Tick tock.

You're supposed to be somewhere, you think. Somewhere not here, but here is all there is inside your head, nowhere else.

"Yes," the man says. "You understand, don't you?"

You nod, because you do, even if you don't, and when you look down, there's a bed beside you and the man in the cage is a rabbit again. It sits up on its hind legs, running sleek black paws over its face, seemingly distracted, disinterested.

The other man, the man in the suit and the sunglasses says, "Would you like to rest?"

"Yes," you reply, suddenly tired, and without another thought you let yourself fall backwards onto the bed, the mattress soft beneath you, cradling you gently, as if held in someone's arms. You're wearing a blue dress, with white buttons and a white collar, and you watch as the man takes off his jacket, unfastening the cuffs of his shirt and slowly rolling up the sleeves. His forearms are thick with muscle; one bare and one with a crowded sleeve of tattoos. A skull stares blood-red, framed by an endless loop of numbers, counting off the minutes, hours.

The man sits down next to you and removes his sunglasses, folding them flat and laying them down on the bed, and his eyes shine dark in the half-light as he smiles at you, showing his teeth.

"What I value most, Alice," he tells you, two fingers tracing down over your cheekbone in a dangerously possessive caress, "is compliance, sacrifice."

You don't say anything, holding your breath as he reaches into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a softly pristine white glove, holding up his hand as he slips it on, easing it carefully, his fingers spread wide. There's a small button at the base, which he fastens, and then he looks at you.

"Open wide, little one," he croons. "Time to see what you're willing to pay."

Your jaw clenches tight instinctively, and you want to shake your head, say no or please or stop, but the voice is there again, inside your mind.

Tick tock, it intones, and you obey, opening your mouth. "Yes," the man murmurs, shoving four gloved fingers past your lips, his thumb underneath your jaw. And you know enough to be aware that this isn't how it's done, not properly, but it seems he's going for something entirely different than a simple move, because this is real, his whole hand in your mouth, pushing right into your throat. You panic, try to bite down, hurt him, but he's got the knuckle of one finger jammed up bent between your teeth, and you're gagging, barely able to breathe, and he's not stopping, only going deeper.

Your arms flail helplessly, hitting out at him, trying to push him away, but he's far too strong and solid, and when your legs start to kick, he presses one knee down across your thighs, holding you in place.

"Stop struggling," he snaps, though it's clear he's enjoying your reaction, his eyes wide, lit up with a menacing delight as he stares down at you. His teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he laughs, quick and vicious. "Don't fight it," he urges you. "Let go."

And just when you think you're actually going to choke or pass out or maybe even worse, something clicks in your head, like a key sliding into a lock, opening a door to somewhere you've never been before, a place you never even knew existed. Your body goes limp, and your mind is blank, and you might be floating somewhere, aware you should be afraid but you're warm, so warm, as if wrapped up in something safe.

And the man seems to know, because he looks at you, with the hint of a smile, and then removes his hand, sitting back. You breathe in, deep with relief, coughing a little as you swallow, your throat dry, but it doesn't feel like anything so very bad.

"Compliance," says the man, fondly now, like the word is sweet in his mouth as he runs his still-gloved thumb wet over your lips. "It can be so very beautiful, as you'll come to know."

He takes off the glove, setting it to one side, using both hands to gently lift up your dress, settling it around your waist. You don't appear to be wearing any underwear, which might trouble you, but the man coaxes your legs apart, his touch sure, confident as his hand slides up between your thighs.

You don't resist him, but then you don't need to, because you're wet, to your surprise and his apparent satisfaction. He hums quietly to himself, pressing down on your clit, slipping two fingers inside you, moving them, stroking you, and you moan.

"There," he soothes. "Is that better?"

You nod, though better than what, you couldn't say, and you don't want him to stop, but he does. Yet it seems you’ve pleased him. "I think we're going to get along very well, Alice," he says, "don't you?"

That's not my name, you want to reply, but suddenly you don't know whether or not that's true. It might be your name, you think, wondering, but you like the way he says it, at least, the way it sounds, so perhaps it doesn't matter.

"I don't..." you whisper.

"Shhh," he tells you, pressing his finger to your lips. "Just say yes."

"Yes," you echo.

"Good girl." He smiles at you, but his eyes are dark.

You smile back at him, because you're sure that's what you're meant to do.

Tick tock, says the voice in your head.