Page 17 of Cruel Pleasures
Will it Ever Be the Same? - Young Summer
One thing becomes immediately clear: I have to get the fuck out of here. My mind’s made up from the moment the dinner ends and the first drop of blood splatters on the floor.
The plates are cleared from the table at the top of the hour and our glasses are refilled. Timothee dims the lights while his shorter, froggier coworker, Jerome, picks up a microphone.
I glance at the others seated around the table.
Everyone stares intently at the far wall as though fascinated by the damask pattern of the wallpaper.
No doubt the rich golden tint and smooth curves are well done, but worthy of the watchful eyes of twenty-four plus people?
Probably a little bit of an overreaction. I’m still trying to figure out what’s so fascinating when I learn what it is that holds the room’s attention—the wall splits down the middle as each side slides over, activated by the push of a button.
Timothee’s push of a button to be more exact; the gangly caretaker stands near the door pressing the button next to the light switch.
The wall being motorized isn’t even what’s most surprising. It’s what it slides away to reveal that really catches me by surprise.
Another wall, this one made entirely of glass. Floor-to-ceiling glass that reveals a room larger than ours and full of people.
At least twenty, if not more.
The society members practically shudder with excitement, sharing glances and trading murmurs. I’m caught between confusion and shock as I process there’s been a room full of people hidden away this entire time. Were they trapped inside that room waiting for us to finish with our meal?
None of it makes sense.
Particularly when I drink in the scene and realize they’re likely locked into the room with no real means of escape. They’re dressed in plain, all-black clothes, and they vary in age, race, gender…
There’s a brawny, silver-haired man pacing from one side of the room to the other. A round, kind-faced woman sobbing, curled up in the corner. A clique of three huddled close, engaged in hushed conversation. Another man who can’t be older than his early twenties, who looks over everything. Downright bored, in fact.
How long have these people been trapped in this room… and why?
I’m still puzzled enough I’m observing every detail about them, trying to decipher what’s going on, when Jerome finally speaks on the microphone, his voice deep and ribbitty like the frog he resembles.
“Welcome, ladies and gents, to the annual Midnight Games,” he announces. “As many of you know, this is an occasion where we celebrate togetherness and take the time to indulge in our most taboo desires. These games are for your entertainment. For your shock and thrill. These players have been gathered here from some of the seediest, most decrepit backgrounds for you and you alone to enjoy. Make the most of it and remember to choose wisely. Shall we place our bets?”
Timothee and the rest of the staff set to passing around cards to write on. I take one only when the card is pushed into my hand.
“Place our bets,” I whisper, catching Talia’s eye from across the table. “What bets?”
“Your bets on the players,” she answers. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going for the man with the muscles and tattoos. Number eleven.”
“Obvious pick but a fair one,” chimes in the portly man on my left. He’s ignored me the entire evening, too engrossed in his plate of food to chat. The topic of the games seems to reinvigorate him, his face shining. “His stats are impressive. Convicted felon. Armed robbery and aggravated assault. Former boxer. Lots of muscle. But where he dominates in physicality, he lacks in brains.”
“That much is obvious,” Nolan sneers, his lip curled. “Look at the oaf. Pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Do you think he’ll make it past any of the puzzles? Any of the strategic gameplay necessary to win? He probably can’t even read.”
Both men share in gruff laughter. Talia joins in with an uncertain giggle of her own, like if she participates, they’ll treat her better.
“It’s a shame Kleiny boy’s not here,” Nolan says. “He loves this part of the games.”
The portly man glances around. “Where is Fairchild anyway? He should’ve arrived by now.”
“Probably dealing with his broke dick. Anyway, what do you think about number three? She won’t last long. Did you see the limp she has? Probably some freak deformity. A huge disadvantage in these games.”
I’m still lost on what I’m hearing. Unease squirms inside my stomach at the language being used. The disparaging way they’re talking about these people trapped behind the glass.
One look at them, and it’s clear they have no idea what’s being said; they have no clue on the other side of what I’m assuming is a mirror that a dining room full of Midnight Society members make judgments and place wagers on them.
If they do, they’re unaware of the specifics. They can’t hear or see a thing on this side of the glass.
