“This is where I live,” Barron says, ushering you into an opulent apartment.

The walk down the tunnel, Barron’s arm around your shoulders, had been strange, the giant boy guiding the two of you unerringly in the pitch-black tunnel, not talking, your footsteps quiet on the slick, clean floor. “Climb,” he had said, placing your hand on the first rung, following you up the narrow tube and into the light.

The carpet is gold, as are the curtains–both on the windows and the four-poster bed with an impossibly thick gold comforter. As you take this all in, you notice the art on the walls.

“Do you like them?” Barron asks. The teen is over a foot taller than you and despite the high ceiling seems to hunch to avoid it.

“Oh, yes,” you say.

The art is all Melania in various states of undress. Melania in the bathtub, mostly submerged, but with the peaks of her breasts surfacing through a thin layer of suds. Melania walking down a busy city street, topless, her eyes in their characteristic squint, an impractically long and insubstantial scarf blown out behind her like a black contrail. Melania leaning over a bathroom counter to put on eyeliner, completely nude, a bar of close-cropped public hair just touching the counter.

“Mother is so beautiful,” Barron says dreamily.

You swallow hard. “Did you take all of these yourself?”

“It’s only ever been Mother and me,” he says. He reaches out to the framed bathroom photograph and traces a finger from her ribs, down the curve of her hips, stopping mid-thigh. “Father was always busy. Television, towers, running for President, tweeting all night.

“That sounds tough,” you say.

“Mother and I have no secrets,” the boy whispers. You suppress a shudder.

“Do you wish you had taken the left tunnel?” he asks.

Your brain screams WHAT but you just smile and shake your head.

“Do you want to see my toys?” he asks. “I have some very nice toys. I keep them in the other room. The playroom.”

“Sure,” you say numbly.

“You have to leave my father’s hat and his hair out here. They aren’t allowed into the playroom.”

“OK,” you say, dropping them on the bed, the hair curled up in the hat like a sleeping ferret.

“They don’t like me very much,” Barron says. “They make fun of me all time. They use my father’s voice. It makes me sad.”

“I bet.” You think about how fast you can get back down the tube, into the tunnels, and away from this giant boy. Fast, fast. But probably not fast enough.

You follow him into the game room. It is a blindingly bright white featureless cube.

“Uh…” you start.

“Don’t worry,” he says, the door slamming shut behind you. You turn to escape, but the door is gone. There are not even seams in the white material covering the wall.

“Sit down, Kyle,” he says, lowering himself to the floor. “Father said he was sending someone for me to play with.”

“What games do you play in here?” you ask warily.

“Any game you can think of,” Barron says.

“Any game?”

“Have you ever played True Faces?” he asks.

“What’s that?”

“We show each other our true faces.”

You shudder, the room is cold and your balls are drawn up tight.

“I don’t want to play that,” you say.

“Everyone says that at first.”

“Can I leave? I don’t want to play the game, I don’t want to play any game. I was just supposed to find the ballots. I just wanted to help the President win re-election.

He cocks his head like a bird and stares at you. “Why?” he asks.

“Because… because…”

“You don’t know why, Kyle,” he whispers. “What were you doing before you got here?”

“I was in prison.”

“And how did you get here?”

“Helicopter.”

“Close your eyes, Kyle.”

The white white white room is infinite now, no cracks, no corners, no seams.

“I don’t want to,” you say.

“You have to, Kyle. For the game.”

“I don’t want to play True Faces.”

“Close your eyes, Kyle.”

You cannot stop them from closing. The bright room should have made the inside of your eyes red, but you only see the most utter darkness you have ever known.

“My true face isn’t this one at all,” the boy says quietly, his breath hot on your cheek, the stink of ketones. “Would you like to see it? Would you?” His voice is slurred now, a metallic growl

“Open your eyes, Kyle.”

“I don’t want to.

“OPEN!”

You are in your prison cell, the bars and thin mattress, the metal toilet and sink. Someone screams. There is always someone screaming.

 

THE END

 

(START OVER?)