Everything is night.

It is always night when I wake. Right now there is nothing. I am nowhere, just floating in the mottled void of awakenings and loss. Wires hold me aloft. But above what?

Above where they are.

Above where the master's victims walk through their lives. Unsuspecting, unknowing about what I am going to do. I do not even know what I am going to do. All I know is the results. What will be after my master has had his way with me. A chill itches up the base of my spine.

Marionette like I am held here waiting to be lowered, lowered onto the stage of the waking. I am in an apartment, not my own; I have none. I have nothing save this costume that is my coffin, and the controller's will.

The lights are off throughout this place. I strain my ears to listen through the wrappings. No one is home, nothing is moving. Solitary in the living room, somewhere behind me, the VCR blinks out 12:00 in pale blue strobes. I do not see it, but I know it. I see nothing through the mask, but still I know.

I find myself being pulled through the apartment. My feet never touch the ground. Wires running through ringlets at my shoulders, elbows, and neck support me. The wrappings pull tight against my breasts and throat. I think at some time it was painful, now I am simply dead to pain of that sort.

In the bedroom, in the closet. In the closet in the bedroom. The clothes are all women's. I knew they would be. The silks and cottons, rayons and linens rustle and fold under my gloved touch. A few items fall from their hangers, softly sinking into a pile upon several tiers of shoes. I wonder what she looks in the brown pleated skirt with her Nine West flats and The Limited blouse.

I begin to dream again.

I dream that I am in the world of the awake. Walking down sun drenched city streets in the clothes that surround me. People of every description walk the broad sidewalks with me, heading to their somewhere destinations. Work, pleasure, the grocery store, home to family.

Her clothes drape over me and are soft against my skin. I can feel the weight of my body on my feet, the hardness of the pavement under these sensible shoes. As I walk past store windows admiring my reflection I catch the eye of a young man. He turns to admire me, a glimmer of invitation in those strong eyes...

It breaks apart as the master tells me to continue digging through the closet. He does not speak, he does not need to. Instead the wires pull my hands further into the closet. Telling me "Look. Look," but for what? Further into the deep closet, past the business suits of international labels; further.

Then it is all clear. Hidden beyond the rows of formal work attire is the attire of play. Black vinyl miniskirts, and leather tops. A sheer European catsuit without any modesty. Shiny patent stiletto heels and platforms, things not at all professional.

A noise.

The wires tighten lightning fast throwing me into the furthest recesses of the large closet. I know what is happening, she is home. I am not prepared to meet her yet. I like her. I like her secret life. The one she hides from the prying of eyes in the back of the closet with me. My wish to see her has fled. I no longer care to know what she looks like. I simply wish for her to leave her apartment and not return; so that I can not complete my masters errand.

The closet door opens and I burrow further back into a shadow recesses of rarely worn sweaters. Through the sour smell of my own perspiration a gentle touch of expensive perfume teases me with it's hints of love and freedom. She must have been out to play. I manage a peek from my hiding space. I can not see her, she must be standing outside of the closet's entry. There is a scuffling, she grunts softly like someone wrestling open the top on a stubborn jar. A spike heeled shoe sails through the open closet door, colliding quietly with an excellent deep blue dress, then thudding loudly onto the floor. After a moment of strain another shoe follows suit. I sense her approaching the closet and prepare to hide again, but she does not enter. One at a time a balled up pair of thigh-hi stockings are tossed silently next to the shoes.

There is a soft stumbling sound accompanied by an alcoholic giggle, she must have been playing very hard. A zipper sounds and a plastic looking black dress is thrown on top of the shoes. I wait intently, but nothing else comes. Outside the bedroom a door clicks shut. A short minute passes and the noise of running water begins, quickly replaced by the rush of a shower.

I am led from my hiding place. Out of the closet, out of the bedroom, past the bathroom into a darkened kitchen, this is where it will begin. The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, is spotless. Everything is elegantly decorated with a special personal attention to detail that makes the rented space a home. However, her meticulously ordered life can only speed my mission. Right where it should be is the wood block knife holder. The first one out is a fine long carving knife with an edge that catches the light from the hall in an evil grimace. I replace it, it is wrong.

The second knife however is correct. It is a mean looking squat knife, at most six inches long, but almost two inches wide at it's base. The blade is cruelly serrated almost to the tip but instead ends in a sharp point. I have never seen a piece of cutlery quite like it. It makes me wonder what it could possibly be used for on a regular basis.

The raining of the shower stops and my thoughts return to the dreaded task at hand, I am turned and I wait. I strain my ears to hear something awaiting my cue. There is the sound of toiletries being lifted and replaced, there is the sound of her humming. The tune is rhythmic and upbeat, most likely something from wherever she had been out drinking. It is soothing, lulling, it makes me want to sleep again. Oh, if I could just return to my dreams and be out of this place I would be so happy. To be away from her, knowing that she is safe awake humming her tune to herself The bathroom door clicks and I know there is nothing that can stop what happens next. Nothing ever has, and nothing ever will.

I am in the hallway as she steps out of the bathroom, wearing a plush white terrycloth robe. She does not see me in the darkened end of the hall where I wait. She simply turns her back without thought and heads towards the bedroom. I follow her. She has stopped in the bedroom door. She has realized too late that something is amiss. She turns around without reason to face the faceless that is me.

****

The alcohol has made her slow leaving plenty of time to look at her. She is so very young and beautiful, tall and lithe. I look into her large eye's, the sight of me has turned them wide as saucers, her gold flecked hazel irises are serenity amidst terror. Her fresh scrubbed skin has been drained of color by fear, and is all the more lovely for it. I am taken wit the manner in which her skin is pulled smooth and flawless as her mouth opens to draw in, what seems, all the air of room into her lungs in preparation for the scream.

My synthetic wrapped hand is in her mouth well before she can scream, my forward momentum carries us both backward onto the plush bedroom carpet. My full weight crushes down upon her body with violence. Lungfulls of air burst out in an explosive rush. The pain and horror have robbed her of the pale fear, leaving her flushed through the cheeks and gasping for air.

I am up now, and so is she. Now she is in the air. Even after all this time in slavery I turn my head at the sound of the crunching glass as her back slams into a large framed image above her bed. The body falls face forward and waits for me to continue.

From beyond the wall there is a moment of pounding. I stand passively surveying the scene waiting for what might come nest. There are some muffled shouts. Then nothing. I go to her.

The glass shards come out of her back rather easily, for this I am glad. The robe thirstily soaks up her pain expressing it as cherry blossom crimson against a field of white. Turned onto her back she is beautiful. The adrenaline and fight for life have gone from her face leaving it pale and soft. Her delicate features are framed beautifully by the splash of bleached white hair haloed around her face. Surprisingly the robe is still cinched, she was meticulous to the last.

I wonder why I am doing nothing, why I am just standing there, when I realize she is still alive, breathing shallowly through pale pink lips. Was I ever as beautiful as her? Did I ever have these soft curves and smooth skin? Did I ever live? She could be my sister, she could be me.

I shut my eyes and mimic her breathing behind the teardrop mask of my master. I shunt my mind to him momentarily and see myself lying on the bed looking up at me. The faceless mask with a sick parody of remorse with it's eternal tear looks back at me. The lean form, constrained in it bindings does not look right, does not move right. Our body twitches and I know she is awakening. My body twitches, and I know the time is now.

Through our eyes I can see the marionette me dropping. My extended hand again pushes into our mouth, holding down our tongue. We bite. I feel nothing.

If the knife was cruel in the dim kitchen then it is pure evil in the well lit bedroom. Every one of the ridges on the blade sparkles like the dying of dreams. We push up and wrench madly to no avail. Eyes wide, head shaking 'No', the knife goes in. It slides so smoothly into her belly I think maybe the strike missed. The abrupt grinding of the blade's teeth against her spine tells me I am mistaken.

Her tongue will be next so the master may continue in silence. In nothing.