365 Days: Drugs, Treason And Demons

MY EYES ONLY

Pablo is going to kill me.

That was the first and only thought that crossed my mind as Mafer took a step back to reveal my new hairstyle.

"Do you like it?" she asked, slurping up the last drops of wine from her third glass of the evening.

"Oh, wow," I said, pretending to gasp in awe, "It's lovely."

Tipsy little Mafer had gone a bit overboard with the curling iron. She'd puffed up the hair on the top of my head, and everything else hung down the sides of my face, clumped into thick, tight yellow coils. Her radiant but reddened face peeked over my shoulder, gleaming with pride and joy. She didn't know she'd ruined my chances at survival.

The makeup was fine, albeit a little bit heavy; but the hair was awful. I looked like a Texan pageant kid, like a golden poodle. I tried my best not to visibly cringe at my curly mullet, but what was done was done. The chances I'd ever see the sun rise again relied solely on Pablo's sense of humor. If my life depended on my ability to seduce Pablo tonight, then it was already over.

Sarah, you'll say, I think you're being dramatic. I'm not. It really was that bad.

The sky was dimming and time was ticking. My fingers nervously gripped the edge of the vanity as I resisted the urge to pull out tufts of my outrageous-looking hair; to rip up the clothes I was wearing that didn't even belong to me; and to claw at the eye bags and sunken cheeks that turned my face into someone else's.

"Are you ready?" asked Mafer, glancing over at the darkened sky outside the window.

"No," I whispered.

She gave me a sorry smile, and I reluctantly lifted myself from the chair. She opened the door, and stood aside. It wasn't yet the pain in my feet, tightly squeezed into my shoes, that stopped me from walking outside. It was the terror, the paralyzing fear of the unknown. I'd dreamed of running out that door for weeks, and now I was dreading it. I didn't want to leave the refuge of my small jail cell, and as I stood on its doorstep, I felt like a turtle without a shell.

Deep breaths, shoulders down, one foot in front of the other. Mafer instinctively grabbed my hand and held it tight. My head was spinning and my heart was pumping, and I could barely control my own strength. I crushed her little hand so hard I felt her knuckle pop.

"Ouch," she whispered.

"I'm so sorry," I breathed.

"It's okay."

I took an awkward step back to let her close the door, and bumped into a guard. He barely budged as I lept away from him. He was tall, bald, wore a black suit, and had a back as large as a grizzly bear. He wasn't looking at me, but rather faced towards a large window. To his eyes, I was invisible; but the barrel of the shotgun that he rested on his elbow was looking straight in my direction.

A cold chill ran down my spine, and I froze for a second, but Mafer quickly ushered me down the long corridor. The sound of my heels clicking on the varnished wooden floors echoed around the high arched ceilings. The corridor was wide, tall, and ridiculously long, yet somehow it still felt suffocating. The terracotta walls were cluttered with dark still-life paintings. Scattered along the length of the aisle were a dozen small tables and half as many sideboards, overflowing with empty vases, potted plants that spread around like vines, and countless amounts of bronze artifacts.

There were plenty of windows, all white, arched, high, and framed with thick beige velvet curtains. In front of every single window stood another man, each of them as faceless, nameless, and motionless as the previous one. They all wore the same suit and clutched the same tactical rifles, and all stood with their backs turned to us.

Their intimidating display made me feel sick to my stomach, as I wondered if they were a part of the plan Pablo had cooked up for me tonight.

In the dim light of the hanging crystal chandeliers, and the occasional silver flash of a lightning strike, the hallway seemed as it had no end in sight. I wished I could move faster, or maybe run back to my room, lock the door, and never, ever, ever come out. But I kept moving forwards, stumbling along in my uncomfortable stilettos as Mafer trotted by my side, still squeezing my hand.

We got to the end of the corridor, and Mafer pushed open a heavy wooden door, that led to a very different room. It was a hall so big, so bright, that I could feel a faint breeze blowing in my hair and my eyes started to sting a little from the harsh light.

The hall echoed with the sound of rain falling on the large glass dome that stretched above our heads. Its crystalline panes shimmered with thousands of raindrops reflecting the indoor lights, twinkling like stars against the darkened night sky.

My mouth hung open in awe at the beauty and extravagance of this place. The sight of it alone was euphoric, and was enough to raise my heartbeat.

I leaned over a carved balustrade, overlooking a vertiginous hole that fell three stories down. A gold and crystal chandelier stretched just above my head, spanning wide enough that I could almost touch it.

All around us was marble - marble pillars, marble tiles, and marble sculptures; white marble, black marble, red, green, and grey, pink marble with golden stripes. It was more than extravagant, it was worse than outrageous, it made the Palace of Versailles look like my grandma's house.

As if memories had been engraved in the stone, my mind painted a vivid picture of a party in the hall. Multicolored evening gowns shimming like precious stones in the golden lights, balconies overflowing with, young, rich, beautiful women and men. Pablo standing on top of the grand chandelier as he's slowly lowered down to the ground, and spraying glitter and champagne on the guests on every floor as he passes by.

The hall was a temple for excess and opulence. I shivered as I pictured it, booming with life, roaring with screams and laughs and music. And here we stood, alone, in silence. Just me, Mafer, and several dozen men standing guard at every window, on every floor, heavily armed and as still as the statues that surrounded them.

I turned to Mafer, who had a discreet smirk on her face as she waited for me to notice the hall's centerpiece. Spanning the whole height of the wall, three stories tall, framed by pillars and spiraling staircases, was a portrait of Pablo. The painting was big enough that my entire head could fit in one of his brown eyes. It looked ostentatious, gaudy, ridiculous, whatever is above over-the-top. I couldn't help but let out a laugh, that echoed endlessly around the marble hall.

"He didn't dare, did he?" I asked, dumbfounded by the sight of this horrid piece of so-called art.

"It used to be the biggest painting in the whole country, but a man called Hernan Sandoval got a bigger one," giggled Mafer.

"Do you think they're compensating for something?" I chuckled, before she yanked my hand to pull me along.

I took a peek over the railing as we walked down a set of twisting marble stairs. In the center of the hall, looking tiny from two floors above, stood the beautiful man from the awful painting. Dressed in a black shirt and grey slacks, he waited impatiently at the foot of a grand staircase, nervously dancing from one foot to the other. When he heard the sound of our steps echo through the hall, he looked up.

"Keep going, we're almost there," whispered Mafer as she tugged on my arm.

The second floor was just as ridiculous as the third. Just as nauseatingly lavish, and uselessly magnificent. Grand archways on each side of the hall led to unending corridors, each of them littered with scandalously-high windows and their crimson velvet curtains, shining golden chandeliers and candelabrums, and dozens more men, more rifles, and more chills down my spine.

Pablo had many flaws, but just as many talents. One of them was to make himself seem like the most humane person in the room by surrounding himself with the uncanny. He was a twisted genius, and his illusions almost worked on me.

Before I could even fathom the size and luxury of the hall, we had reached the top of the grand staircase, the imposing final stretch that separated me from Pablo. He was right at the bottom of the steps, facing away from me, standing with artificial indolence as he swirled around the ice cubes in a whiskey glass. Mafer let go of my arm and stroked my fingers one last time.

"Good luck," she breathed.

Deep breaths. Don't stumble, don't cry, don't run away, not tonight. I prayed my heel wouldn't slip on the edge of a step and send me tumbling, or perhaps I prayed that it would, and that I would at least hit my head first and remain unconscious for the rest of this evening.

I slowly walked down the steps, with my right hand clutching the railing, and the left tugging down on the dress to stop it from riding too high up my thigh. Pablo slowly turned around as I got halfway down the staircase, and it hit me how much he had scenarized this date. How many years had this psycho spent preparing and waiting for this? Did they coordinate, did they rehearse, was it all going the way he'd planned it? I was the unpaid, unaware, and most of all unwilling actor in Pablo's personal fantasies.

He stretched his hand out so that he could catch mine, as I floated down the grand staircase's last three steps. At this point, even I had to admit, there was something romantic within all this staging. At least, that was, until Pablo opened his mouth.

"Well hello there, Goldilocks," he teased with a twinkle in his eye, his gaze lost in the curly jungle that spread over the top of my head "Or should I say..."

"If you ever say Gordilocks, I will punch you in the face," I cut him off.

A beaming grin slashed across his face.

"Darling," he purred, "I think we might be soulmates."

I pushed my tongue into my cheek to try and keep my smile at bay. He squeezed my hand and raised his eyebrows.

"Shall we?"

I shrugged internally. It's not like we have a choice here, do we?

"These heels make you taller than me," he observed as we walked across the hall.

"Sorry."

"Why would you be? I love tall women," he said, leading me around the stairs and through a high archway, "There's something about them that has always impressed me."

"Alright then," I smiled, "Now you can call me Mommy."

Pablo chortled in his drink, splashing whiskey into his eyes, and I relaxed a bit, thinking that at least, even at my worst, he still thought I was funny. Mirroring his old jokes seemed to be a good tactic to pull at his heartstrings. Pablo liked to be the center of attention, and I imagined he expected everyone to give heed to his every word. Maybe, if he noticed that I'd listened and remembered the things he'd said, he'd be flattered enough to rethink his punishment. And maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to survive tonight. Elevated by a small sense of control, I straightened my back and picked up the pace of my steps.

Pablo pushed a door that opened up onto a smaller room. It was still more grand and luxurious than anything I'd ever seen but compared to the main hall, it felt cozy. Stuck in between excessive amounts of negative space was a dining table, surrounded by twelve chairs, although it could easily fit thirty. The left side of the room was lined by an ornate bar from which hung probably a hundred wine glasses, and behind which I caught a glimpse of the kitchen, which, much to my disappointment, wasn't Pepto-Bismol pink, but completely covered in marble and mahogany.

"Welcome to my man cave," said Pablo, who'd already disappeared into his kitchen. "What do you think of the house?"

I raised my eyebrows as my eyes scoured the room.

"It's very... feng-shui."

"Look at my new air-fryer," he cheered, shaking an unopened cardboard box, "I bought it with June's dad's money. Well, just a small part of it, really."

My lips curved inwards into an awkward smile. I wasn't interested in what June's ransom money had been spent on. I cared to find which object in this room would Pablo use to try and murder me. He might stab me with a fork. He could bash my head on the corner of the marble countertop. Hang me from one of his statement ceiling lamps. Or he could go with the classics and poison me with the dinner. On the opposite side of the room, there was a small sitting area with a leather couch and a few armchairs, decorated with abstract metal sculptures and lots of plants - palm trees, pampa grass, and tall pots of lilies.

"You like plants?" I asked. Pablo didn't strike me as the gardening type.

"I like how they look," he shrugged, "But I'm not very good at taking care of them."

"You can say that again," I scoffed.

He didn't answer, as if he hadn't heard me, or at least pretended he didn't. He seemed distracted enough by whatever he was doing in the kitchen, so I wandered over to the large windows, and leaned in to try and see what was outside. Regular flashes of lightning showed me a small patio, with a few tables, benches, and more potted plants. Behind it, a big garden with a few palm trees gently swaying in the wind.

"Come here, Gordita," Pablo's voice startles me and I peel my face away from the cold window pane.

I walk over to him and hop onto one of the bar stools. Appetizing smells of lemon and spices floated from the kitchen, and I licked my lips.

Pablo held up a bottle of white wine in one hand, and dropped a bag of pills onto the counter with the other. I bit my lip, and my heartbeat rose. Nope, not tonight, not with him. I wouldn't make that same stupid mistake today.

"So," he asked, "Are you having wine or ecstasy?"

"Wine," I answered as I rolled my eyes at him, "You know I'm not touching that shit."

"Ecstasy is more fun, trust me," he muttered, pushing the small bag towards me.

My nostrils flared and my jaw clenched. I wasn't going to fall for those kinds of lies again. I grabbed the bag and threw it back at his face.

"I'm having wine, thank you," I said with a stern voice.

"Wrong choice," he scowled as he caught the pills in his hand, "Now I have to kill you."

His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and his lips pouted at me. I stared at him, completely silent aside from a nervous gulp, and hid my fingers in between my knees so that he wouldn't see them tremble.

"It's a joke, Gordita," he smirked, "You should have seen your face."

"You're not funny," I hissed.

"And you're not fun," he answered while he uncorked the bottle, "Wine it is."

He poured each of us a generous glass, clinked his against mine, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Bear with me a minute," he apologized, "I have to finish cooking."

Music started playing faintly in the background, but I was too distracted with figuring out how I might die tonight to even try and figure out if it was a song I knew. I sipped my wine as I glanced at the large windows that framed the room. Unlike those in the corridors and the hall, none of them were guarded.

"Do you usually have this many guards around?" I asked.

No answer. Just the distant notes of music playing at a low volume, and the sound of Pablo's knife vigorously slamming down on the cutting board, sending chills down my spine with every chop.

"Why did they all have their backs turned to us?" I added, "It's kind of creepy."

"That's because this," he stated, looking up at me and wagging the point of his knife in my direction, "is for my eyes only."

I wondered if the shiny blade would glide across my throat later tonight. I shook off the thought and took another swig of wine.

"Not really. Mafer saw me too," I said.

"Who's Mafer?" he asked, not bothering to lift his head up.

"My maid," I sighed.

"Then she doesn't matter."

"That's a stupid thing to say," I frowned, "She matters to me. More than you do, really."

"She shouldn't," answered Pablo, "She's only there to clean."

"She does more than that. She spends time with me, she talks to me, she's actually really nice." My voice cracked as I started to get a little too defensive.

"Gordita, you really shouldn't trust those people," he grunted, shaking his head, "The only thing these women do is talk behind your back, distract my bodyguards by giving them blowjobs and then occasionally they might find the courage to dust a thing or two."

"You're so f*****g rude," I replied.

"How do you know she's not just pretending to like you?" he shrugged.

"Why would she? It's not like anyone is forcing her."

"Is she the one who did your hair?" he asked, and he finally looked up towards me.

"Yes," I answered, biting off a small chunk of skin off my bottom lip.

"See what I mean?" he said with a smug grin.

"She didn't do it on purpose," I growled, and started tugging at my hair.

"Perhaps she did it to help you scare the creeps away," he chuckled.

"Exactly," I smirked, "Like a shield to protect me from you."

Pablo walked over back to the bar with two beautifully prepared dinner plates. He stood behind me, and laid a sticky hand on my bare shoulder. I shivered at the sight of how he towered over me, and at the feeling of his warm breaths brushing on my shoulders

"Well I'm sorry," he said as he licked his lips, "But it's really not working. She'll have to try much harder than this if she wants to keep me away from you."