Mine(28)

“What’s the difference?” I asked again. She stared ahead at the operating room table in the middle of the room.

“Regular acting is all about pretending. You wear masks.” Her voice was soft, the words coming out almost automatically.

“And the way you do it?”

“With method acting, you’re not pretending. You’re living. If your character is angry, you feel that anger.” Her jaw clenched, and I could see something inside her rearrange itself into a definite hardness.

“Meisner called it living truthfully under imaginary circumstances," she said. She stood very still.

“Then let’s pretend this is a stage,” I said. I put one hand on her elbow and she twitched, then took a step forward. “It’s a surgeon’s stage, is what they call it. The operating room.”

“You don’t operate,” she whispered. “You kill.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re both here now, living truthfully. Aren’t we?”

Another flash in her eyes. Something bothering her.

“Come on, then,” I said, cajoling. My hand cupped her elbow, and she let me lead her.

She shuffled over slowly, awkwardly. I could tell that the injection was still muting her movements. I had nothing to worry about with her. She’d be back to normal within the night, if a bit sore tomorrow. I led her through the operating room to the waiting room, and let her go to the bathroom while I waited by the open door. Then I took her arm and led her to the side of Mr. Steadhill. The silver nitrate had scabbed over his face properly, and when she saw him she blinked hard. She didn’t turn away, though.

That was a good sign.

“Wait here,” I said.

I went back over to my medical cabinets. I took out a scalpel and a black permanent marker from the first drawer. When I turned around, her eyes fixed onto the blade. She took a step back, and her eyes widened. I walked to the other side of the operating table. Mr. Steadhill began to moan behind the gag.

Pulling the cap off of the permanent marker, I motioned for her to come closer. She did. Her breathing was shallow.

“There are a lot of ways to kill someone,” I said. I slid the drape down on Mr. Steadhill’s chest. Thin tufts of dark hair spotted his skin. I drew a circle on the middle of his chest with the thick marker.

“This is the heart,” I said. “The breastbone covers most of it, and even if you got past that, you’d have to slice through the pericardium. Too hard.” I made an X over the heart.

“But this,” I said, drawing a line on his neck, “is where you would have to cut if you wanted to slice the jugular. It’s a quick death. Thirty seconds, on the high end. You bleed out quickly, very quickly. Like being guillotined. Much easier. Less satisfying, for some.” I thought of Gav. “But easier to accomplish.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

I stood up straight and turned the scalpel around. Holding it by the blade, I offered it to her.

“You wanted to get out of here,” I said. “I’m showing you how.”

Her lips parted when she realized what I was saying. The scalpel hung between us, the blade silver in the light of the operating room. Underneath, Mr. Steadhill squirmed, but I did not want her to pay attention to him. I wanted to be able to trust her, I really did. But there was only one way to do that.

“Kill him.”



Sara

“Kill him?”

I stood in shock, staring down at the silver blade in Rien’s hand.

“Yes,” Rien said.

His word was soft, calming. I breathed in and reached out for the scalpel. He handed it to me, our fingers touching, and the touch sent a shiver through my body.

The scalpel looked so small now that I was holding it. The blade was delicate. It didn’t seem like a weapon that could kill people. And yet… I looked down at Gary struggling to talk behind the cotton gag. His one good eye stared at me, straining to communicate as he made noises that sounded completely unintelligible.

“Why do you want me to kill him?” I didn’t know what else to say.

“If you kill him, then I know I can trust you.”

I looked up at Rien. His eyes burned golden under his dark hair. He was wild, and I saw something in his eyes that made me doubt the truth of what he said.

“Will you trust me? Really? Once I kill him?”

“It would make it easier. It would show me that you would never tell. You wouldn’t have ever seen me kill. You would be the killer.”

I looked down at Gary, who was screaming a muffled scream. He thought I would do it. His eye looked terrified up at me.

Would I do it? Could I be that character? Would a survivor do it? I looked down at where Rien had marked the skin on Gary’s neck. One cut. One cut and I would be free.