Moth to the Flame

The wood cabin held the scent of a dark and gruesome past firmly in its knotted grip, washing nostalgic memories over Oliver as he paced the length of the small, single-roomed structure in the deepest of forests. Twined with the plastic sheets lining the walls, floor, and ceiling, the aromatic mixture ripped him from the present to simpler times, to days when he and his Father would take their annual trip to the cabin, days they could never relive.

“Please….let me go.”

Oliver stopped his ritualistic movement, his eyes creeping to the corner of the room where his guest sat, beaten and bound. Blood dripped from the crown of her head and soaked into the dirty rags tied around her eyes, her once pristine dress torn and ragged from the scuffle leading to her current predicament. Oliver always loathed his Father's habit of leaving their mouths free, their pitiful whining and weak begging ruining what should have been a wonderful family moment. Still, to honor the memory of his departed Father, he left the mouth’s ungagged, instead adding his own personal twist to the tradition. Moving over to the still exposed wood stove, he pulled a metal rod from the flames, the tip hot and searing, ready to facilitate his sadistic pleasures.

“Now, now, Miss Reynolds. I believe I told you what would happen if you continued to speak out of turn. Didn't I?”

Hot tears forced their way through the tight blindfold surrounding Miss Reynolds’ eyes as she bit her chapped and cut lower lip in terror of what approached. She didn't need sight to feel the heat from the scalding metal poker Oliver brought in front of her face, waving the torturous device back and forth as if attempting to tantalize instead of terrify. 

“Now, we have the whole weekend to play before we finish. Nod if you would rather end it all early and I will be happy to oblige.” Oliver pressed the bright red, super-heated metal poker between Miss Reynolds’ legs, sinking through her dress and the bottom of the chair as if cutting through warm butter. 

Miss Reynolds tilted her head quizzically, her features shifting from frightened to confused as she clicked her tongue and shook her head vigorously. “No, no, that's not right. Not right at all.” With a snap of her fingers, she stood from the chair, pulling off the blindfold and tossing it to the ground to reveal a pair of startlingly green eyes, her gaze hard and unbothered by the display of murderous mania before her. 

Oliver remained transfixed upon the spot, the sizzling, metal prod still in hand as he stared vacantly ahead, his face frozen in an expression of confused panic as a single tear rolled down his cheek. Only his eyes were capable of moving, following Miss Reynolds as she circled the room. Stuck in a state of perpetual tension, his mind panged violently as competing memories surged into his head, adding to the frenzied terror rising within him.

“Were you going to brand me with that thing?” Miss Reynolds asked, exiting Oliver’s view and fiddling with the tools lining the workbench behind him. “So messy. So….unprofessional. Not remotely correct.” Sucking her teeth, she ran her hands over the rust-covered blades and blunt weapons, each splayed haphazardly across the table with no care or visible process. “When I chose you for this operation, I clearly misjudged you. A police officer in high regard. Squeaky clean. Your record spotless, and your personal life nonexistent. No one would blink if you snapped and started killing people. Instead, it seems like you will simply become another anecdote for my file. Pity.”

Flashes of two different lives clashed within Oliver's mind, both failing to drown out the booming voice of Miss Reynolds as she returned to standing in front of him. The two realities were structured differently, one vivid and detailed, the other foggy and nearly forgotten. The hazy world held impossibilities. Suburban life as a youth, four years of fun-filled college, police training, and overall commendable service. No faces surfaced in those memories, no voices or distinct identities. 

By contrast, the life he remembered as an absolute certainty fought back against the fog, the life of a killer born and bred. His Father’s voice reached him over all other sounds, his teachings and guidance which led to him capturing Miss Reynolds. He needed to fulfill his life’s ambition. He needed to kill those who his Father never had the chance to kill. 

Though he struggled to remember why.

“Now,” Miss Reynolds snapped her fingers again, “tell me your motivations, please.”

“My Father used to bring me here once a year. I would watch him work, and help him cleanup after. Together, we liberated twenty souls before he died of cancer. I took on the mantle of his work from then on, adding another fifteen souls to our combined total. I--”

Another snap, and Oliver’s jaw locked up, his words left on the tip of his tongue as Miss Reynolds ran her hand lovingly down his face. “Father?” she asked, her tone wavering between enraged and confused. “I don't know how you managed to add him into your narrative, but it has cost you, dear Oliver. You were meant to have come up here with your Mother, and she died of old age. Well, old age and crippling dementia. My goodness, your actual Father must have done some handy work on you to root himself so deeply into your subconscious. I understand a thing or two about overbearing parenting, believe me, but I cannot forgive it in this case.”

The false reality implanted by the woman controlling him cracked, the fabricated identity crumbling under the weight of her words echoing in his ears. He couldn't look away from her haunting emerald eyes, every facet of her being entrancing him as she moved back and forth in front of him. Within the haze of his true self, he recognized her, walking clearly through his true memories, vivid and bright against the backdrop of the faded life he had forgotten. He remembered pieces of their meeting at a bookstore on the weekend. She asked him on a date, and he had eagerly accepted. More than once they had gone out, and each time he had blocked out everything except for her. Everything except her voice, and her beguiling, unblinking viridian eyes.

Miss Reynolds pulled out a cellphone, pressing a button before bringing it to her ear. A few empty moments and a man's voice broke from the device. “As it turns out, I will be able to attend your meeting, Mister Rook. My toy is broken and won't be of any use to me.” She paused, listening intently to the voice on the other side while Oliver wept silent tears beside her. “Yes, I know. Daddy issues, apparently. He couldn't soak in the whole narrative so I’m going to have to cut him loose. Yes, it's a shame. Anyway, I’ll be on the next plane and join you shortly. I look forward to our next venture. You too. Goodbye.” Pocketing the cellphone in a huff, she returned her caustic stare back to her prisoner, her unmoving captive.

The magic shattered, the two worlds fighting for dominance in his head fell away and only the truth remained. Miss Reynolds' illusion broke, and Oliver along with it. The final thoughts screaming across his psyche pertained to the case he had discovered, the unsolved mystery of the infamous hypnotist, the Flamme Fatale. A master of manipulation who drew her victims like moths to a flame, entrancing them before putting them to whatever use she desired. Somehow, the Flamme Fatale had been operating for decades, and the hapless Oliver never would have considered a woman his own age for the criminal mastermind.

A failure which would cost him dearly.

“You weren't close, Oliver. Not remotely,” Miss Reynolds explained as if sifting through his regretful thoughts, sitting back in the chair she had pretended to be bound to. “I wouldn't beat myself up if I were you; I’m a hard nut to crack. You see, my Mother never received any notoriety for her work, because most people at the time, most men, never thought a woman capable of the level of cruelty she inflicted. Let alone the skill with which she performed her work. Not so lucky for her, she taught me everything she knew, and I in turn ensured she forgot everything she taught me using her own techniques. Age has a way of dulling the mind, makes it easier to play with.” 

The metal rod dropped from Oliver’s hand, the clanking muted by the plastic covering on the floor. Slowly but surely, the tension in his body was relenting, itchiness returning to his skin as Miss Reynolds' hold started to loosen while she monologued.

“No, you weren't close,” she continued, pursing her lips while staring at the fallen torture device. “BUT! You were interesting. Most of the men who investigate the Flame Fatale underestimate her, but you actually trained with hypnotists, lesser hypnotists obviously. You wanted to steel your mind against corruption. It seems to have worked to some degree, you certainly managed to keep parts of yourself locked in place.” Pulling her phone out again, she checked the digital clock and frowned. “I’m afraid we are out of time.”

Rising from her seat, she circled around behind Oliver again, his jaw slowly moving to meet the rest of his face and his fingertips buzzing with feeling. “Wait….,” he managed to say, slurred and weak through numb lips. The sensation of a pressure at the back of his head forced him to close his eyes, anticipation for the obvious conclusion exerting a heavy gravity over him.

“I cannot, Oliver. I am sorry. I really liked you, but I have a legacy to uphold. Something I know you understand all too well. Goodnight, and sweet dreams, my little moth.”

The gunshot rang out through the isolated forest, unheard and instantly forgotten. Exiting the cabin, Miss Reynolds locked the door and moved towards the vehicle waiting right outside. Hopping into the driver’s seat, she spared one last glance to the cabin, released a bothered sigh, and drove away. Oliver had flown too close to the emerald fire in her eyes, and like all who did before him, he paid the ultimate price.

Like her Mother before her, she planned on doing the deed again. Sooner than she realized.