Mabel Shot Part 2
"Come on, let's go!" Macro laughs, grabbing my fingers and pulling me into the second hallway as the executioner steps back, giving us room to pass. "Mabel, come!"
I glance over my shoulder at the guard who stays behind, still watching me intently, while Macro walks quickly ahead. I see him stop a few steps forward, dropping our coats on an empty counter to his left. Then he turns to me, smiling, and gently cups my face, smoothing my eyebrows.
"Macro, what is this place?" I raise my eyes to his, searching for any clue as to where we are. "Why did you bring me here?"
"Do you remember when we were kids and we used to sneak out of our room to climb onto the orphanage roof?" He smiles, giving me a nostalgic look. "And you'd play with me while we imagined what all those people in their houses far from us were doing?"
"Macro, we're not those kids anymore," I say seriously, lifting my hand to grip his wrist. "You still haven’t answered why you brought me here!"
"No, we're not. But we're also not like those people we imagined in their homes." His hand slips to the back of my neck, stroking my hair, shaking his head as he brings his face closer to mine.
"What are you talking about, Macro?"
"Freedom, Mabel. Finally finding our world, our tribe," he replies, laughing and kissing my forehead. "Our essence, a safe place to unleash our demons."
"Oh my God, Macro! Are you on drugs or something? I don’t understand anything you’re saying. I think I drank too much; I shouldn’t have come here." I laugh, raising my fingers to hold his face, making him look at me.
"Do you remember when I told you I met someone?" Macro bites the corner of his lip and steps back, releasing my face.
Yes, I remember that—it was about three months ago, in the basement of the building where I work. That day, I was cataloging some paintings by a new artist at the gallery when my phone rang.
"I knew something was wrong!" I say seriously, staring at him and recalling that phone call, which sparked my worries about Macro.
Macro had been euphoric on the phone. He had been with a peculiar client who had "fucked him so well" that Macro didn’t even charge for the session. I remember this because it was the first time Macro had ever talked to me about his work. He rarely liked discussing it; he wasn’t proud of being a male escort. I listened to everything Macro told me that day, and while nothing seemed strange about him having an incredible session with his client, there was one small but crucial detail that couldn’t be overlooked.
The client wasn’t just any man, like Macro’s usual clients—men with businesses, families, wives, and kids, who occasionally wanted to step out of routine by sleeping with a gay escort. This particular client was a man of faith, someone who had taken vows of celibacy and dedicated his life to God. After that phone call, Macro practically disappeared for a month. I called him, but it went straight to voicemail. I sent emails and text messages, but none of them got a response. I went to his apartment and found it locked up. Nobody knew where Macro had gone—not the neighbors or his friends from the clubs he frequented.
I was so worried that I even went to the police, hospitals, and, in a final act of desperation, the morgue, looking for him. Then, almost two months after he vanished, out of the blue, he called me on a Wednesday afternoon, asking if I could meet him at his new address. Macro had moved to a nicer part of town, into a fully furnished apartment near a university campus. He was going to start studying philosophy, with all his college expenses paid. I didn’t need to be a genius to figure out who was behind all the good things happening in Macro’s life. My friend claimed to be fine, avoiding too many details, but in one of our conversations during a visit, he let it slip that he was attending secret meetings, and that he’d finally found his place.
I know it might sound stupid, but I came up with all sorts of theories. I thought this man of faith had brainwashed Macro, or maybe dragged him into some sort of cult. And I shamefully admit that I even researched religious cults that practiced human sacrifice. But who could blame me for being worried and imagining dark possibilities? There are so many sick, twisted people in this world. Charles Manson is proof that evil knows no limits or boundaries. Who would’ve thought a small, frail-looking man like that could harbor so much darkness within?
Macro could have easily fallen into the clutches of a psychopath, and no one would have cared. Who would go looking for a young male escort, an immigrant, on the streets of Moscow?! He was practically the perfect target for a predator. When I shared my dark theories and fears with him, Macro just laughed, saying I always expect the worst from people. Fair enough—he had a point, because that was true. But it’s always been the worst side of people that I’ve encountered, starting with my mother, who abandoned me at an orphanage when I was born, then through the hellish twelve years I spent there, until I was adopted by a strict family that kept me locked up, and then Nate. Nate was the worst of all—my first boyfriend, whom I met when I was sixteen, and who left the worst scar on my life when I turned twenty. All of these people made it impossible for me to trust anyone. They contributed to my habit of always expecting the worst from people, because when you expect the worst, nothing can hurt you.
"What does this man have to do with this place, Macro?" I step forward, studying him closely. "What did he really do to you that you haven’t told me?"
"He set me free, Mabel." Macro gives me a sideways smile and tilts his head back. He raises his right arm and extends his hand toward me. "Let me show you this world, which is as much mine as it is yours, where demons aren’t condemned."
He turns his gaze toward the last door in front of us, which looks like a steel elevator door.
"Macro, there are demons that shouldn’t be awakened," I hiss softly, rubbing my temples, still unsure about what could be behind those doors—and whether I even want to find out.
"It’s time for you to try moving on. Just let your guard down, even if only for a few minutes." Macro softens his tone, giving me a long, searching look. "You’ve been stuck in this bubble you’ve locked yourself in for five years since Nate."
I lower my eyes and stare at the tips of my shoes, shaking my head. I know I’ve distanced myself from everything and everyone after what happened between Nate and me. I haven’t trusted anyone since, and I certainly haven’t been involved with anyone. I was sixteen when my adoptive mother introduced me to Nate, a polite man with a sweet smile. Alekessandra, my adoptive mother, said he was the best match in the golf club she attended and that Nate wanted to be my friend—a good friend. Nate was handsome, naturally charming, romantic, and capable of deep conversations, which was more than enough to captivate a girl who had been raised locked inside a house, homeschooled by her mother. And to my young, romantic soul, it felt like I had found my Mr. Darcy.
I quickly became enchanted with him, and I was overjoyed when he asked Mr. and Mrs. Shot for permission to date me. Nate was respectful, talked with me about my interests in art, paintings, and anything related to the subject. The kisses were chaste—never on the lips, only on the forehead. He said he’d wait until I was older to share our first real kiss, and my romantic heart swooned even more. I was happy, truly believing I had found my "happily ever after," just like the stories I read in secret from Alekessandra. I had practically planned out our whole life together in my head: I’d convince Alekessandra to let me study fine arts in college, and after my graduation, Nate and I would get married. We’d have a beautiful honeymoon and live in a lovely house, with many rooms to eventually hold our children. By then, I’d be working as a curator in some gallery or perhaps even running my own successful business—a thriving woman, married to a handsome, wonderful man. Looking back now, I see how foolish I was, but I was an innocent fool, a girl who had spent her childhood abandoned in an orphanage, desperately wanting a happy ending, a family. Imagining your entire future with someone is a bit like playing poker. You think you have the best hand and make the biggest bet, but you never really know the other player's true intentions. Sweet smiles and kind eyes can deceive just as much as the sad face of a player who’s bluffing, making you believe you’re winning that round. Nate wasn’t the Mr. Darcy of my life—he was more like Freddy Krueger, turning my dreams into a living nightmare.