Page 24 of Make Me Scream

Except, when I get to Galleria Carnale, I find he didn’t need any help.

Right inside the lobby, hanging from a wall behind the reception desk, there’s a painting of me. I think it’s me, anyway. The title reads “Awakening.” There’s a figure with hands chained to the ground and her head pointed at the sky, hiding most of her face. I can’t be positive who it is, but on gut instinct I recognized myself. Am I just being self-centered? I don’t think so. It’s not like I see myself in paintings all the time.

Maybe I want the painting to be me because of the shiver running through my body. She looks so beautiful in that white gown, and so helpless… She’s not looking up because she’s scared, though. Her mouth’s closed. She’s in ecstasy.

If this is Lane’s art, I have to see more.

“First time?” says a hostess at the gallery’s main entrance.

“Huh?”

“Is this your first time here?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say.

“Great. Welcome. I’m Donna. I’m afraid tonight’s show is a member-only event. If you’d like to join-”

“I should be on the guest list,” I interrupt.

Fuck. I didn’t mean to be curt, but my heart’s pounding.

“Sorry. I’m… Gwen Carpenter.”

She opens a folder resting on a podium by the door, then nods after a moment.

“Yep, you are. Here’s a disclaimer about the exhibit,” she says, handing me a slip of paper. “You should read it.”

I give it a glance. Something about safety, then eroticism and viewer discretion.

“No photography, no videos. Got it?” says Donna.

“Sure.”

She smirks, and doesn’t try to hide it.

“Okay, you can go in. Enjoy!”

What’s that about?

Does she know it’s me in the painting? Or did Porter say something to her? Is there a note next to my name on this list? I peer over but she shuts the folder.

Whatever. I head inside, and then I see what the disclaimer tried to tell me.

The only painting in this gallery was back out front. The exhibits inside are alive: naked women, all of them restrained in some manner, all of them visibly suffering. Judging by the behavior of the gallery visitors, this is completely normal. Men and women, mostly older than me, take in each “piece” as calmly and analytically as if they were sculptures.

I count six “exhibits” in total. Four of them are bound in place, standing or sitting on miniature square stages. One has her hands bound at the wrists and chained to the ceiling, pulled so high she barely stands on her tiptoes. She’s completely naked, her oiled, glistening body fully on display. An ornate calligraphy inscription on her flat stomach says “Intern.” No one seems to care that she’s in obvious pain: she whimpers and groans while sweat drips down her forehead. I assume if she needed to be let down, someone would help her. I hope so.

Another woman dangles from her arms and legs by scarlet red ropes, her body pointed at the ground like a torpedo so she rests on her head and chest. Unlike the first “piece,” she sighs and smiles, despite the matching red gag in her mouth. Face buried in a thick, white pillow, she closes her eyes — for all I know, she’s actually asleep. A wiry gold tiara rests in her tousled nest of blonde hair. A placard on the stage reads, “The Favorite.”

Someone nudges my shoulder, so I turn around. I nearly scream, seeing the next exhibit: a woman covered from head to toe in skin-tight black leather. Her arms have been strapped behind her back, and a heavy hood leaves only her nostrils exposed. The only non-black leather part of her outfit is a silver necklace and a heart-shaped pendant. I have to look closely to read its inscription: “Finders Keepers.”

The woman — I assume it’s a woman based on her figure — mumbles something at me. I stare at her, jaw hanging, not sure what to do. Is she asking me for help?

“Gotta watch out for that one.”

I turn to find Lane Porter. A knowing smile lifts his stony features.

“Excuse me?” I say.

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