Hell in a Trailer

I was in a room. I can't say "I found myself in a room" or "I woke in a room"... I was just there. It was perhaps the living room of a trailer, by the look of it. Seventies-orange carpet with dark wood (most likely fake wood)panelled walls. It was not the nicest room. Somehow it felt like one of those small-town white-trash churches, but I'm sure the man in charge was no priest. At least no Holy-man. I never saw him, but I felt him everywhere. However, I did not fear him. Somehow I knew he would not see me. His attention was all focused on the other occupants of the room. 1

There were hundreds of them (a great feat considering this was not a terribly large room, but space here seemed to have no laws), all women. Obviously they were not here voluntarily. Their naked bodies were tied to crosses with barbed-wire pulled so tight that it cut deep into their flesh. Each cross was attached to a large tub full of boiling water dyed red with their blood.2

I felt for the women, but mostly I was in a shocked state of awe at this terrible display. The women (all were obviously beautiful before entering this place) were screaming, but I barely heard them. I saw the pain and fear and needed no screaming to reassure me of their pain. I never really thought of where they came from, who they were, or why they had been brought to this place... this fate. That was not my prime concern, I just wanted out.3

Slowly I made my way between the tubs toward the side of the room where I hoped to find the door unlocked. Although I did not believe the man responsible for this hell-in-a-trailer would see me, I crouched down anyways, just to be safe. Finally, after passing through many rows of women, I came to the door. Indeed this must have been a trailer because it was a trailer door. I looked out cautiously through the little screened aluminum framed window to see if all was clear. All was not clear.4

Where I had expected to see my route of escape, instead I saw another woman. This woman however was not alive. Not like the women on the crosses were alive at least. Her head hung slightly to one side but her body hung very straight up and down. The basic posture of a hanged person. Then something happened that did scare me. The dead woman looked at me. The dead woman glared at me. The dead woman seemed to point at me. And I was sure of two things. The dead woman was evil, and the dead woman hated me.5

Weighing my options I decided upon the strange safety of this torture chamber. In here I was just an unknown, undiscovered visitor. Outside, I would certainly become another victim.6

Slowly I walked back through the room, no longer crouching or even attempting to hide. I knew that the only real danger was on the front porch, hanging from the rafters. Nobody could see me except the dead woman. Apparently the living women were too far gone to notice me and the man didn't care about me. 7

I watched the grizzly display for some clue of what it was. And why it was. I looked to the front of the room where I could feel the man was watching from, but saw no one, just a small carpeted platform like a stage. An orange stage in an orange church is how it struck me.8

Looking back across the seemingly endless rows of women, which greatly resembled scarecrows strung up on their crosses over some crop, I saw that the crosses were not made to stay upright. one by one they dipped the women into the tubs. Flesh burned and bubbled, cracked and peeled. The women, however, still did not die.  I had seen all I wanted to see, and apparently I had seen all I was going to see.9

I cannot say how I got out of the room, just as I cannot say how I got there in the first place. I just was. Out of the room. Out of the trailer church. Away from the fields of tortured women. Away from the man. Away from the dead woman. Away from all of it and running like hell.10