Page 62 of Caged
The March Full Moon Ceremony,
Junior Year,
Sigma
Istir to the loud sound of gravel crunching under tires and headlight beams backlighting the closed curtain. Even from three stories up with the windows shut, I can hear the comings and goings of cars since the parking lot and driveway are immediately below both external-facing sides of the bedroom. What time is it, anyway? The room is still dark, so it can’t be sunrise yet.
Kieren lies like a corpse beside me, face turned sideways on the pillow, softly snoring. Sometimes I catch myself staring at him while he sleeps, admiring his beauty, and I hate that he’s so fucking gorgeous. I hate that he became even more gorgeous when he got his eyebrow and nose piercings. I hate that he has this hold over me, and that I so desperately want to please him, to be good for him. I crave his praise and affection. I yearn to beloved by him like a normal person. It’s all I wish for. Why can’t I be enough? I’ve given him so much of myself. Why won’t he do the same?
Quietly, I climb over his body. I’m desperate to relieve myself and curious who is driving into Sigma’s parking lot at such an hour.
Pulling back the curtain, I watch the passenger’s side door open. Harrison steps out. I’m shocked to see his full, unconcealed face. The driver’s side door opens, and in similar fashion, Barrett exits the vehicle. No ski masks, and most interestingly, no one else. I suppose it makes sense that the Sigma alumni, or‘elders’as Jace called them, have arranged other accommodations. I can’t blame them for not wanting to spend the night in a disgusting frat house.
Swiping my phone from the edge of Kieren’s desk, I tiptoe into the bathroom and peel down my underwear, regretting my lack of foresight to preemptively set out a change of clothes. I startle at the sound of a door slamming shut down the hall, then another.
Despite the noise I’m making in the bathroom and whatever is going on outside his bedroom, Kieren hasn’t stirred.
A feeling pulls me to the door like gravity. Unlocked. Kieren never leaves his bedroom door unlocked at night, even when we’re inside. My brows knit together, puzzled by this discovery. Twisting the knob, I silently open the bedroom door just enough for my slender body to slip through. A strip of yellow light seeps under the common room door. The hallway is always lit, no matter the time of day, and I squint as my eyes adjust to the harsh florescent lighting.
I pad quickly down the corridor, still in my black lace thong and bra. The coast is clear, so I keep going. I round a corner, then another, then another. I ever so delicately lean into the metal bar of the heavy stairwell door and hold the handle once I’m on theopposite side so the sound of the door closing is only a hissed whisper.
My thighs pump rapidly as I race down the stairs on tiptoes. This time, I notice the filth coating each step, filth that now has transferred to the soles of my feet. I definitely should have showered.
The first floor is empty. Through the windows, I see the sky outside is pitch black.
My heart beats in my throat with nervous fear as I reach the final set of stairs leading to the basement. I creep down to the last step and place an ear against the door to listen. Quiet.
Slowly, I turn the nob and peek inside. A few scant lights remain on, providing just enough visibility to navigate the space. Curtains hang heavy from the ceiling. Some have come unfastened in spots, falling in on themselves. Overturned furniture looks strange and out of place, like a trashed hotel room. Red plastic cups are haphazardly strewn across the floor. I trip when my right foot collides with a cup half-filled with liquid, knocking it over.
I reach the back of the room and run my palm up and down the wall while holding my phone in the other. Where is this door? I know it’s here.
My index finger snags on a divot. Such a shame to paint these wood panels, they were probably here when Sigma was originally constructed. I curl my finger into the barely discernible notch and tug. Hinges on the other side of the wall creak. The hidden door drifts open as if propelled by an invisible wind.
Behind the door is a dank, cave-like space that reeks of spoiled, charred meat. What the fuck is that smell? There must be a dead animal in here. With trembling fingers, I lift my phone to pan the small space with the flashlight, expecting to see a hidden room of horrors.
But… It’s a closet.
Random chairs, random party decorations, random shit…
Is this like that movie where kids walk into a wardrobe and stumble upon a portal to a secret world? Or in the case of Sigma, a portal to hell?
I study each pocket of miscellaneous items for clues.
Jesus Christ, the smell. Where is that coming from?
A draft of frosty air wafts over my bare toes. Strange.
I point the flashlight at the floor and study the wood paneling. It’s ever so slightly ajar. Dropping to my knees, I run my fingers between the two wooden boards and feel that one board is protruding just a bit. I trace the line, up, up, until I’m standing eye-level with a circular indentation in the wood that looks an awful lot like…
… my brand.
Fingertips of my left hand trace around the smooth scars on my left ass cheek while I examine the small design carved into the wood.
It’s the same…
The brand, or the ring, rather, is a…
“What the fuck are you doing?”
