Prompt: Mastermind, Word Count: 1,000 exactly
Published at: 12ShortStories.com
Empire of Hell
by T.R. Kisgen
My new work partner is Tristan. As art directors, our contributions are vital. Though we are forbidden to congregate I am attracted to Tristan. He is the first in two years to make my stomach flutter. His smile comes with a dimple and his right eye squints which I pretend is a wink.
I enjoy the way he holds a paint brush, and the way he strokes large swaths of color across a black canvas. His movements are never hurried and he exudes confidence. I feel my face flush just watching his sensual hands.
As in a dance, Tristan lowers his torso to hover an inch above the work table then raises his gaze to meet mine. Pools of blue invite me in so I drop my head to stare at my shoes. I can feel my heart racing and notice my trembling hands. When I peek again, Tristan is hard at work, but his lips play with what has passed between us. We do not meet each other’s eyes for the remainder of our work day. It is far too dangerous.
Marjorie LaMaine drives a hard bargain. To enjoy a career within her prestigious cosmetics line, one must be younger than forty, well-educated and comply with her rules. Emotions are not allowed, everyone must adhere to the dress code, and no interpersonal relationships may begin. Communication is controlled and staff must live on the city campus during their entire four-year contract.
Rule One: No Tears/No Retaliation/No Laughter/No Flirting.
The first rule states that “staff shall never display feelings on their countenance or in their behavior”. We are taught that feelings are unnecessary and cause distraction. No one is exempt. Employees at all levels will be immediately punished for any displays of sadness, anger, joy, or lust.
Rule Two: Dress Code.
All staff must wear their provided uniform. Everyone sports black pants, black combat boots and a white button down shirt. All employees are required to have dark brown or black hair. Men must wear it short, be devoid of facial hair, and women are to keep their hair straight and long. Locks must be natural, no color or extensions are allowed. If any makeup is worn, it must be subtle and should only be LaMaine products.
Rule Three: No Relationships.
No personal relationships may develop; no friendships or romantic involvements. LaMaine employees are hired to work, not socialize.
Rule Four: Maintain Privacy.
Staff must consent to limiting communication with family and friends to three minutes per week while under surveillance. Personal internet access is not allowed, nor is television or cell phones. Most areas are monitored with cameras, including private apartments. For all these restrictions, there is a lucrative payoff.
We are paid handsomely for our devotion to LaMaine Cosmetics. At the end of the four-year contract, employees are provided a choice between shared ownership of the famous empire or with a cash payout of three million dollars and a signed agreement to never disclose corporate information. At first this appears to be a too-good-to-be-true scenario. However, what has become evident to me is that not many workers last the duration to make such a decision.
I have broken the first rule by allowing Tristan to see my wanting of him. He could betray me but I think he won’t. It seems the wanting I am experiencing is mutual. We just have to wait it out. In our world, we have witnessed the elimination of those who go against the rules. After a display, accused employees are confronted and removed by a pair of robot cops called Glens. The accused are never seen again.
As I leave the office tonight my senses are heightened. Walking the six blocks home, I am fairly confident that no one is hiding in the shadows or following me. Fear coats my skin despite my rational thoughts even as I press the five button code that allows me entry. Creeping into the elevator, terror tickles my breath and lingers as I emerge and press another three buttons which opens the door to my unit. Thoughts of my demise remain even as a small lamp lights in the entry in response to my presence.
After working half my contract, I have learned hard lessons. I have noticed many new faces and have seen just as many disappear. I am being watched so it is imperative that my actions convey nothing out of the ordinary.
Despite no appetite, I slip off my shoes and go into my lavish kitchen and prepare a sandwich. Typically my evening activity consists of eating, taking a bath, and standing on my humble balcony where my thoughts run rampant before climbing into bed.
Tonight I am not making a lovely meal of salmon and zucchini and this diversion could be flagged. To continue with my white bread and turkey cold cuts I lay down the sandwich, lean my elbows on the table and make a show of rubbing my temples. If the cameras report a headache, my unusual choice of dinner will not seem strange.
I take my time and finish my meal in twelve bites. I stand, take my plate over to the sink and load it into the dishwasher. Not yet ready to bathe, I open my French doors and step out onto the balcony. The streetlights are on and I am mystified at the view.
Marjorie is standing in the road below. Is she waiting for me? She makes direct eye contact and points down the block. Shadows of two Glens are moving towards her. As they approach I see Tristan in their hold and he is wearing a blindfold.
In slow motion, Marjorie draws a handgun and fires. Tristan’s white shirt darkens as he jerks from the impact. The Glens step away and let Tristan fall to the ground. I gasp and the monster looks up at me. She waves a finger as though warning a mischievous child. Then the Glens follow Marjorie down the street, dragging Tristan’s dead body behind them.