Fated Under The Mistletoe

“Bianca, we're done. I found a new couchie!” The words echo in my mind. It was a relentless mantra that has haunted me for months. Ryan’s cruel dismissal, delivered in that single, heartless one-line sentence, shattered my world. So much for our holiday plans, our Christmas Eve date, and our New Year's Eve get-together with old friends. It’s all gone. *** Then, months later, a text message arrives. “You know what Bianca, I heard you're in town. Maybe you should come to my apartment." A flicker of hope ignites within me. Maybe he wants to try again, to work things out. Maybe he finally sees the depth of his mistake, the emptiness he feels without me. I’m back in Bloomfield for the holidays, seeking solace in the familiar embrace of my family and the town I grew up in. I drop my bags, hug my mother, and storm out of the house. “I'm going to see Ryan,” I declare. In Ryan's apartment, my hand trembles on the doorknob. My mind screams at me, warning me to turn back. This is a mistake, a foolish act of self-destruction. I shouldn't be here. After the pain he inflicted, the callous way he discarded our relationship, I should be running, not returning. But hope keeps me thinking, maybe, just maybe. My heart thumps against my ribs like a drum solo and finally, I push the door open. The apartment is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the television. I can hear the muffled sound of laughter coming from the room, but the living room is empty. “Ryan?” I whisper. A beat of silence. Then, my eyes land on the wall. My blood runs cold. My pictures. My nudes. They are everywhere. On the fridge, the bookshelf, the ceiling, even on the lampshades. A shot of my breasts, my ass, my p***y, all along with my face. They were pictures he requested, pictures I sent in the early days of our relationship, when I was naive, when I thought I was loved and wanted to make him feel good. “What the hell?” I breathe. I start taking them down, my hands shaking. “Why will he do that to me? Is this how getting back together is expected to work?” “Stop!” a voice booms from behind me. I spin around and come face-to-face with Ryan. He’s standing there with three guys behind him. My gaze is drawn to the picture of my naked body that I was trying to shield, now fully exposed in the dim light. I try to cover it, but my hands are shaking too much to be of any use. I know them. They’re Ryan’s friends. Mark, Jerry, and Collins. “What is this, Bianca?” Ryan asks. Should he be asking? I wonder. Shouldn’t he be apologizing? “Ryan, what is this?” I ask. I realize I shouldn't be covering any, beside them is another picture of my boobs. “You were so stupid, sending me all these pictures,” Ryan says. “Stupid? You’re the one who asked me to send them!” I shriek. “You told me you wanted to have a collection of my pictures, to remember me by!” “So you could have sent the decent ones,” he sneers. My breath catches in my throat. I can't believe he's saying this. I thought he loved me. I thought I was special. “Why? Why would you do this, Ryan? Your friends are looking at my pictures. Please make this stop,” I beg, my voice cracking, tears welling up in my eyes. “We’ve had fun with them, Bianca,” Mark says, grinning wickedly. Jerry throws an arm around Ryan’s shoulder. “Yeah, these pictures have been vital. They made me hard. You’ve been a good sport, Bianca.” “Don't worry Bianca. What Ryan owns, we own too. What he can see, we can too. And it's just us that have seen it, not the public. At least, yet,” Collins says. “What do you mean?” I ask. “We’ve got an idea, Bianca,” Collins says. “We have a few ideas.” “What kind of ideas?” I plead. “We just want you to be a celebrity, Bianca,” Mark says. “We printed these copies just to show you we have them. We will print more and paste them on billboards. A million dollars and we'll delete them." “What?” I stare at them in disbelief. “A million dollars? You can’t be serious.” “That’s right, Bianca,” says Jerry, his face hardening. “We are serious.” “You’re blackmailing me?” I ask. Mark laughs. “We’re not blackmailing you, Bianca. We’re giving you a chance to save your reputation or maybe blow like a celebrity. We're giving you a chance to stay quiet. We're giving you a chance to be smart or dumb. Choose.” A cold terror grips my heart. I'm trapped. I'm cornered. They are ready to do this. Who will I beg among them all? Not even Ryan. He's in on this. I want to run, to scream, to disappear. But my legs are numb, and my voice is gone. “You’re not serious,” I whisper, shaking my head to wake up if this is a dream. “Please, you can’t do this.” “We can,” Jerry says. “We will, unless you give us what we want.” I rush to Ryan and hold his legs. “Please Ryan, you can't do this to me. You love me, remember?” “That was then. Now, I want money for the holiday. So go find it,” he replies. “Please. You were my first love. We have plans for this holiday. Please,” I beg again. “Remember what Collins said,” he points to Collins. “Your pictures make him hard. This is the same for Jerry and Mark. And I'm sure the boys are hard now too?” “Hell yeah!” They chorus. I look around and see them lowering their pants. The connive to do this, they could r**e me. Finally, I'm able to force myself to speak again. “I’ll… I’ll get the money. Just please… don’t… don’t do anything.” “On Christmas morning, you'll either become the talk of the town or you get me the money to paint the town red. And note, we all have the files, you can only get one of us arrested at a time. One goes down and your pictures go kaboom! Bounce b***h, before you have a threesome,” Ryan says, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. I run as my legs can carry me, escaping the suffocating darkness of the apartment. I can hear their laughter echoing behind me. The cold air stings my face as I run into the street. I collapse on a bench, my body wracked with sobs. I have to get out of this city. I have to get away from them. From him. But that's not the solution. I have to get the money. But how? I want to scream. I want to run away. I want to hide. But there’s nothing left to hide from. The world feels like it's closing in on me, my heart breaking with every breath. I shouldn't have come. But does it matter? He seems prepared to end me. The next three days are a blur. I barely eat. I barely go out, constantly looking over my shoulder, fearing the moment my pictures will appear on billboards or plastered across the city. I hide at my parents' house, my phone glued to my hand, waiting for the next blow, waiting for the final act of destruction. There is only one thing I can think of - hanging myself if it all goes down. And then, there is something. “Bianca, today's Christmas Eve, tomorrow morning, you're going live. Get my money, or be ready!” Ryan's texts me. I stare at the message. My heartbeat rises, and I feel like purging. I rush to the toilet but there is nothing. Again, I look at the text again and it causes my temperature to rise. I can’t let this happen. But what can I do? Where can I get the money? A million dollars. That’s what they want. That's what will buy back my silence, my dignity, my life. But where will I find that kind of money? I don’t have it. I’m just a regular girl, working a dead-end job. I don’t know anyone rich. I walk out. It is two hours to Christmas. I'm sure Ryan is waiting. If it goes down as he plans, I'll step into the road. I walk for minutes. The cold air sting against my numbed body. I walk and walk until my feet are sore, and my mind is exhausted. As night descends, I find myself standing under the mistletoe tree in the town square. It’s a beautiful sight, the twinkling lights illuminating the tree with a soft, festive glow. But I can’t feel the magic. I can’t feel anything but despair. It surely will be my last. Suddenly, a car pulls up beside me. It’s a sleek black vehicle with tinted windows. A man steps out. His eyes scan the surroundings with a sharp gaze. “All clear, boss,” he said and opened the door. A man steps out. He looks to be in his early thirties. This is the first thing I can see about him before his cologne hits me. His face is white like porcelain making his dark eyes and hair accentuated. He towers before me and looks down at me. “What are you doing here?” He asks. “Waiting…” “Waiting for what?” He asks. “For my life to be over.” “Well, death is standing before you,” he says. “Then take me. I'm ready.” I close my eyes. Maybe the fantasy is true. That at the last minute, victims see death. Suddenly, his cologne feels close and in the respite that follows, a soft skin touches my lips, then the roughness of hairs. He kisses me and I jostle back. “Once a woodpecker pecks a tree, it is not necessarily an attack. It may be for food or the creation of a cozy nest. Brink her with me,” he says. The man who steps out earlier walks close to me and drags me into the car.