MODEL
By
Randy Benivegna
Abigail Ballard had started keeping
a record of her dreams.
A spiral notebook was set aside on
the top of her nightstand so that when she woke every morning, she could jot
down everything she remembered from her slumbers. The realm of dreams was a
fascination of Abbie’s for years. She loved trying to interpret and decipher
her dreams, to discover the hidden meanings and messages intertwined in them.
She often had trouble recalling all
the details or would forget minutes after stirring from her sleep. Hence the
notebook. For months it helped Abigail keep track.
What started as an eccentric hobby
in January became a guide to help her understand the nightmares that had plagued
her through March and had spilled over into April.
From what she could recall, the
dreams all shared one identical attribute. They all transpired in some
underground labyrinth where Abbie would find herself running. She could hear
heavy footsteps as her impending attacker chased after, but she could not see
his face. Not because her assailant was wearing a mask though.
He didn’t appear to have a face.
It was as if a new layer of skin had
formed over his hair, eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, enveloping his features. Her
attackers face was a pale, blank canvas that only added to the terror and
mystery surrounding these nightmares.
What did his lack of a face
represent? Was it a sign that something was missing from Abbie’s life? Was it a
metaphor for the way she often felt forgotten or brushed aside by her family
and friends. And the biggest question that Abbie pondered, did this faceless
attacker really mean her harm, or was it all just part of the dream?
These were the questions that kept
Abbie preoccupied for weeks. Virginia Ballard refused to let her sister waste
the last few days of spring break.
Virginia had scored a modeling gig
in Ocean City and had bribed Abbie into coming by giving her that beige Coach
bag she was always drooling over. She figured Abbie might even get laid out of
the whole deal, but part of her doubted it.
Abigail–an introvert whose major was
entomology, the study of insects–was still a virgin at age nineteen. Virginia
tried to change that fact for years, but she failed to realize that Abbie
wasn’t like her. She wasn’t like any of the girls her age. She prided herself
on being different.
* * *
Griffin Dunn sat in the black BMW
his parents bought him for Christmas and watched his buddy Ian grind up a gram
of pot with his fingers and roll it with papers.
“You’re not smoking that in my car,”
Griffin warned him.
“Like hell I’m not,” Ian said,
reclining his seat and bumping the knees of Jude, who was passed out in the
backseat.
Jude awoke grumpy and saw the joint,
snatched it from Ian’s sticky fingers. Then he rolled the window down and
sparked the joint with his lighter.
“Hey!” Griffin admonished him.
“What, I rolled the window down,”
Jude disputed. “Are we there yet?”
“We haven’t even left Mill Pond,”
Griffin remarked. “We’re still waiting for Virginia and her sister.”
“Pass that J,” Ian demanded.
“Fat chance,” Jude inhaled and shook
his head.
“Hey, Jude, didn’t you fuck Virginia
once?”
“Twice,” he exhaled and coughed.
“Thanks for the reminder. I swear, double bagging it doesn’t even help with
that girl. You have to triple bag it and top it off with a shot of penicillin.”
“You’re just saying that because
you’re not getting with her anymore,” Griffin laughed. “She’s not so bad. She’s
just like us.”
“She has a dick?” Ian asked
sardonically.
“Very funny,” Griffin mumbled. “You
guys didn’t have to tag along you know. I can’t believe you’re coming just to
score cheap weed."
“The key word is cheap,” Jude said as the joint burned
down to a roach at his fingertips. He took one last hard drag and flicked the
roach out the window.
“What’s the deal with the sister?”
Ian asked as the front door of the house opened and Virginia and Abagail
stepped forward with their luggage.
“Virginia’s the slut, Abigail’s the
virgin,” Jude explained.
“She’s still carrying her V-card?
What decade is this?”
“She’s saving herself for marriage,”
Jude mocked. “She thinks she’s going to find Mr. Right.”
“Whoever Mr. Right is, I kindly
doubt he’s going to buy the car before he test drives it.”
“Pipe down,” Griffin said as he
popped the trunk. “They’re coming.”
Virginia and Abbie packed their
luggage in back; Abbie had one bag, Virginia had three. Then they squeezed into
the back with Jude. Virginia forced Abbie to sit in the middle to act as a
partition between her and Jude.
“Virginia,” Jude murmured and nodded
in her direction.
“Jude,” Virginia managed to cough
out his name.
“This should be a fun ride,” Abigail
whispered to Virginia. And with that, she popped her ear buds in, turned her
iPod up full blast, and closed her eyes.
* * *
Ocean City was a four hour drive
from Mill Pond. Half an hour from their destination, Griffin pulled off at some
no-name gas station to fill up his tank and give everyone a chance to stretch
and move about after three and half hours of being crammed in. Virginia was the
first to exit the car when they stopped.
“Thank God,” she said, flexing her sore
arms. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“Did you say stretch or spread?”
Jude quipped.
“Eat me,” Virginia said, waving her
middle finger about in his direction. “Not literally though. If your tongue touches
me, I’ll cut it off.”
Virginia walked it off and Jude
turned to Abigail. “A bit rough around the edges, isn’t she? It must be tough
looking after her.”
“Virginia is tough enough to look
after herself.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you tough?”
“Touch me and find out,” she smirked
and Jude backed off.
“What’s your angle?” Ian inquired.
“What do you mean, angle?"
“Well, Jude and I have our own
agenda. Virginia is tagging along because of her modeling gig. Griffin is going
to try and reunite with his ex, Shelly. So where do you fit in?”
“I don’t fit in. I’m like that one
missing puzzle piece that you can never find.” Disinterested, Jude and Ian
followed Griffin into the gas station to pay the attendant. The attendant–a
bald, toothless, middle-aged man named Frank–sat behind the register, reading
the local paper. He didn’t glance up to acknowledge them. Not when Griffin
cleared his throat or tapped his fingers on the counter to grab his attention.
“Hey, douchebag, you open for
business or what? My friends and I are looking to buy some gas.” It was Jude’s
remark that garnered Frank’s full attention. He set the paper aside and stared
at Jude intently, trying to burn a hole through him with his eyes. Finally he spoke.
“I’ll bet you ten bucks you won’t
take a dollar bill out of your pocket right now and rip it up,” Frank wagered.
Jude laughed and said, “If I rip up
a dollar bill you’ll pay me ten?”
“That’s the bet,” Frank clarified.
“Piece of cake,” Jude replied and
took a crumpled dollar bill from his wallet. He tore the dollar down the
center, ripping it in two.
“You lose,” Frank cackled.
“Fuck are you talking about? I did
exactly what you said?”
“No, the best was that you would rip
it up. You ripped it down.”
“So you’re telling me I just lost a
dollar for nothing?”
“Technically you lost eleven
dollars,” Frank corrected him. “You owe me ten because you lost the bet.”
“Fuck off,” Jude said. “I’m not
paying you shit. And you owe me a dollar.”
“Well, you ain’t getting it,” Frank
scoffed. “And I don’t think you’ll be getting any gas either. Those pumps don’t
take credit cards and I’m pretty sure the tanks are empty too. Better luck at
the next gas station. I think it’s just twenty miles or so up the road.”
Jude clenched his hand into a tight
fist but Griffin grabbed his friends arm and pulled him back before Jude could
inflict any harm.
“Forget it, man,” Griffin shook his
head. “He’s not worth it. There’s a diner up the road. We’ll figure it out
there.”
Frank eyed them carefully as they
exited the station and Griffin’s BMW pulled off down the road, heading west.
Then he picked up the phone and made the call.
“Yeah, there are five of them. Three
guys, two girls. They just pulled through here, heading your way now. The guys
might pose a problem.”
* * *
The Bayside Diner was virtually
deserted and that meant Jude didn’t have to worry about keeping his voice down,
which he never did in public places. He liked his opinions, no matter how
absurd or inappropriate, to be heard.
“We should’ve stopped at that Exxon
in Cherrywood,” Jude scolded Griffin.
“I told you I won’t support them after the oil spill,”
Griffin said.
“Fuck the oil spill,” Virginia said.
“I have a modeling gig in two hours and I’m not going to miss this opportunity.
Which way is town?”
“Ocean City is fifteen miles west. I
think I have enough gas to get there. But I don’t know of any other gas
stations along the way. I hope we make it.”
“And if we don’t?” Virginia asked,
her voice filled with concern.
“Then I’m afraid we’re stuck here
for a bit. Worst comes to worst, we can always walk to the nearest gas station.
There’s a Mobil in Ocean City. I can’t promise you’re going to make that gig
though.”
“Don’t you dare say that,” Virginia
cried.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Jude started
in. “You slob my knob and I’ll carry you to that gig if I have to.”
“Pass. If I want a two inch fuse in
my mouth, I’ll blow a stick of dynamite.” Ian howled at that line until Jude
punched him in the shoulder and he quieted down.
“Some vacation,” Abigail muttered to
her sister.
* * *
Griffin’s BMW just about made it to
the border of Ocean City. The car ran out of gas a few miles from the next
station.
“What now?” Abigail asked as
Virginia was slipping into panic mode.
“Give me your phone,” Jude said to
Griffin.
“What for?”
“I’ll call my dealer, the guy Ian
and I are supposed to meet up with. If he wants his money, he’ll get his ass
out here and give us a lift to the gas station.”
“I’m not giving you my phone so you can
call your drug dealer,” Griffin protested.
“Fine, have a blast walking in this
heat. Send me a postcard along the way.”
Griffin sighed, took out his phone,
and passed it to Jude. He called his dealer, a stoned slacker named Floyd, who
said he’d be there in ten minutes. He showed up in thirty.
Jude and Ian crammed in the front
with Floyd and the rest of the group climbed into the bed of Floyd’s pickup. At
Virginia’s request, Floyd dropped her off on the way. Her gig was a small
studio on Waverly Avenue and it wasn’t too far from the Mobil. Abigail tagged
along, not wanting to leave her sisters side.
Griffin promised after they filled
up the car that they’d meet the girls back at the studio.
The studio itself was on the first
floor of a small, brick-front building that was divided into two parts. The
second half of the building looked as if it was being used as a warehouse for
mannequin parts.
When Abigail peered through the
window, she could see them propped up in every corner. And there were two white
bins below the windowsill, one holding assorting mannequin limbs and one for
the heads. She backed away from the window slowly, a chill rushing down her
spine.
Mannequins always gave Abigail the
willies. Ever since she was a little girl and she had her first encounter with
one at a department store. The eerie lifelike quality and the design of the
eyes made it feel as if the mannequins were watching her, eyeing her every
move.
The door of the studio opened and Trey
Stone stood in the doorway to greet them. “Afternoon, ladies,” he nodded and
grinned. Stone could be quite charming when he had to be. And the women still
found him attractive for his age, which was nearing sixty. He still had a full
head of wavy black hair and piercing grey eyes that seemed to gaze beyond the
fleshy exterior and peer deep into the core of the soul.
“I’m Trey Stone,” he said, extending
his hand. Virginia accepted it. His grip was smooth and gentle.
“We spoke on the phone,” she said as
he released his light grip and folded both arms across his chest. “I’m Virginia
Ballard.”
“Oh, of course,” Trey nodded
pleasantly. “I totally forgot that was today. Well, no problem. I have a clear
schedule and plenty of space so I’m sure I can set something up quick. Come in,
please, come in.”
Trey turned back into the studio and
Virginia followed with Abigail behind her, who was clutching to the back of her
sisters shirt.
“Who’s your friend?” Trey asked as
he gathered some of his lights and began setting them up in one corner of the
room.
“This is my sister, Abigail,”
Virginia introduced her.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Trey said as
he quickly finished with the lights and checked the lens on his camera.
“Do you know the deal with the
creepy mannequin shop next-door?” Abbie blurted out. The question was on her
mind and she couldn’t help but let it out.
Trey chuckled. “It’s mine, actually.
My father used to make them by hand, worked for a department store in Queens.
He passed his expertise along to me and I sort of picked up where he left off.
It’s a lost art. Not too many people make mannequins nowadays and yet there’s
still a demand for them with all these department stores out there.”
“So what are the photographs for?”
Virginia asked.
“For the mannequins. I need a model
to base my work on. It simplifies the process for when I’m making the final
mold. All I need is a few photos and your measurements and we’ll be all set.”
“That’s it?” Virginia asked, severely
disappointed. She was expecting this to be her big break. “I thought this was a
real modeling gig. You know, bikinis, swimsuits, lingerie, that sort of thing.
I didn’t know I was going to be fodder for a mannequin.”
Abigail couldn’t help but chortle
when her sister discovered this was what her big modeling gig entailed.
“If you’re unhappy with the job I
can always find another model to accommodate me,” Trey shrugged.
“No, it’s okay,” Virginia assured
him. “I’m here. I might as well take the money and keep my mouth shut before I
talk myself out of this thing.”
“Very well,” Trey nodded. “I’m all
set up. If you’d just step over there into the light in front of the backdrop,
we’ll get started.”
“So how exactly do you make a
mannequin?” Abbie inquired.
“You’re full of questions,” Trey
chuckled again. “Well, the original mannequins were made from papier-mâché.
Then they used wax to try and create a more lifelike appearance. When wax ran
its course, they used plaster. Today it’s a mix of fiberglass and plastic. You
pour liquid plastic resin into a mold and wait for it to harden. The fiberglass
comes after.”
Trey explained all this as Virginia
fixed her hair and positioned herself in front of the backdrop, trying to find
the right pose.
Trey stepped over to the wall and
dimmed the house lights a tad. “Can you step to the right a little more?”
Virginia took two steps to the right
and Trey flicked a red switch near the lights. The floor opened up and Virginia
fell through the trapdoor that led to Trey’s cellar. She was not wounded in the
fall. Trey had set up a rubber mat to ensure her safety. But she could tell
navigating her way through this place would take some time. The cellar was not
so much a cellar as it was a series of tunnels, an underground labyrinth like
the one that had plagued Abbie’s nightmares for weeks.
She did not scream out or beg for
help. She knew the minute she fell for his trap that this man was not who he
claimed to be. He could only imagine the things he was doing to Abbie at that
very moment. She couldn’t hear Abbie at all, and that didn’t bode well for her.
She rushed her way through the
tunnels, using the light from her cell phone to guide the way. With no markings
or distinguishable structures, Virginia felt as though she was running in
endless circles.
The reception on her phone was weak.
But she realized calling 911 was still an option. The battery was the only
factor as her phone was on the verge of dying at any minute.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she
dialed those three magic numbers and let it ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the
operator asked after two rings.
“My name is Virginia Ballard. I’m
stuck in the cellar of a man named Trey Stone. He has my sister. Please send
help. We’re at 2454 Waverly Avenue.”
“Ma’am, I can’t understand you. You’re breaking up with
every word. Where are you exactly?”
A light, harsh and blinding, pierced through the tunnel. The
surprise made Virginia drop her phone and she heard it crack into pieces as the
light drew closer and this strange figure came into focus.
The man had a white mask pulled tightly over the corners of his
face, voiding him of any human features above the neck and making him take on a
faceless appearance. The flashlight whooshed as it cut through the air and
cracked against Virginia’s skull. She dropped and her eyes fought her as they
tried to close while she struggled to keep them open. The sound in her ears
popped in and out as the light slowly faded and she drifted off without further
resistance.
* * *
Trey still had the mask drawn over
his face as he set about completing his work. He liked to talk throughout the
process, whether it was casual chitchat or deep philosophical conversation. The
conversations were a little one-sided, but he found it made the procedure go by
faster.
“Your friends, they seemed like a
nice bunch of guys,” he said directly to Abbie. “They’ll make decent additions
to my collection. But you and your sister, you two are the keepers. The real
trophies. I knew your sister was the easy one to reel in. All I had to do was
promise her a quick payday and she didn’t bother to ask twice. Your friends
were a bit unexpected, but I can always count on Frank and Floyd to do my dirty
work when need be. You wouldn’t know it by looking at them, but they’re
actually father and son. It’s astonishing what some folks will do for money
these days. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”
But he was talking to himself as
Abbie had been rendered unconscious by a sharp blow to the head. Her body was
stuffed inside a large mold that matched her features precisely.
“You know the amazing things about
mannequins?” Trey said as he stood over her, plastic resin in hand. “They can
be so real, so lifelike, and yet they don’t inspire vanity because they’re not
anatomically correct. They’re not projections of how we see ourselves. They’re
objects that we hang cheap fabric on and try to sell for inflated prices.
Mannequins aren’t the problem of society; society is the problem of society.
The only way to fix it is to become part of the mold.”
He
tilted the liquid resin and let it fill the body mold.
* * *
The Christmas season was upon them
and the two girls figured they’d get a head start on their shopping. They had
already taken a trip to the mall and visited the crafts shop on Park Place.
Their next stop was the department store near Waverly.
Clarissa skipped along with glee as
her friend Shelly trudged behind, lugging several heavy shopping bags that were
filled to the max. Clarissa stopped outside the department store to admire the
window displays. It was the mannequins that caught her eye, specifically the one
wearing the grey Kashmir sweater she had wanted for months.
“Look at the lines
and curves,” Clarissa remarked. Amazing, so lifelike. The person who makes
these is an artist.”
“Huh?” Shelly remarked, slightly bemused.
“What is it?”
“The mannequin in the middle…looks kind of like my
ex-boyfriends neighbor. What’s-her-name, Abigail?”
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