Prolog

It
was a dark, damp, dreary night. The fog from the bay crept along the streets. Climbing on

shadows, whispering to souls beneath the cracks of stone on the cobble streets. You could

not hear the pitiful waves, or crickets –if there were any- or an owl snapping a mouse’s

neck in its beak. The salty air no longer felt cold to naked feet or hands. Dark circles had become black

eyes under windows of a tortured soul. Though one could not feel pity for this creature that huddled in

this narrow alley. This forgotten mortal did not expect warmth from wrapping its arms around a thin

body, nor comfort, nor peace of mind. For pure hatred and disgust and annoyance was etched into its

taut face. And this face that was so cruel, so demon-like that it felt no guilt, was no older than

seventeen. A young girl whose mind has been twisted and gnarled and succumbed to such malice that

it’s unclear whether her heart still beats after being crushed with madness. And all this vexation lies in

truth beside a secret that does not shame her. And if one ever got close enough before or after she went

mad, one would find a scar, stretching from the back of the bottom of her head to her left collar bone.

And an eagle tattooed on the back of her neck, its wings spread in flight aligned with her shoulders. But

during some dreadful night, when this scar was made, one of the eagle’s dark blue wings was broken.

They say a knife was once held, to be thrust into her skull, only to be foiled as she must have

turned, running the knife along her neck. It’s obvious this fight was won. It’s obvious this girl won it.

The thread between genius and madness is spare. And although many believe her to be lost, I

find her balancing still. I wonder what she knows. I wonder what she’s seen. Only someone half mad

could do want she must have done. Only someone half mad could get away with it.

She must have had a name. It must have been spoken once, and the one she goes by now may

or may not be hers. We do not call her by anything, except for those who know her. And those who

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know her, or knew her, are unknown. So her identity remains a secret, though I’m sure she’d tell u

herself, that her name is or was Joanne O’Donnell. A naive name, one that never expects much more of

them than to wear a petticoat.

If you sat beside her, she wouldn’t look your way. But she didn’t leave or move an inch either.

She always had a knife on her and -possibly full, possibly empty- money pouch, a soft pink ribbon, and a

note. The knife and pouch were normal, and the ribbon had to be a memory. But the note was

something else. She sometimes fumbled it in her hands, just feeling the rough parchment. Other times

she read it over and over again. The edges were worn and the lines faded and the tint no longer white

but a decaying gold. And sometimes if you looked really close when you caught her reading the note,

you’d see her dry, thick lips, once holding an “M”, crack into a small, honest, and very real smile.

We wonder what annoyed her, and if it was simply the build of annoyance, abuse, torture and

hatred that was rumored when her name was known, that made her this way. Is the knife she carries

the same that slashed the throats of the undiscovered bodies? We wonder where she went that one

year when she left in hidden red garments. What was it that she found hidden in that note?

Chapter 1

I
watched a brightly painted orange leaf flitter to the ground. The air was nippy, not too cold but I

felt it in the tips of my fingers and up to my shoulders. I let a shudder consume me, not only

because of the wind, but because of the stout woman coming near. Her smile was plastered onto

her face, I imagined her makeup flaking off as the mask it was. My mouth stayed a straight line. This

pompous woman called herself my mother, true or not I did not believe that my father ever loved this

monstrosity. Money. That’s all anyone ever married for. If you had money, you married to get more. This

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fat trout wouldn’t have gotten a first husband otherwise. But he was dead now. And mysteriously this

thing managed to wrap this new gentleman around her fat little finger.

Her white gown was as stiff as their backs as they stood under the thick orange and gold

plumage of a Japanese maple. It’s bending and swaying branches swept the ground, so full of life. The

plump erect pair didn’t seem to belong under its elegance. My gray skirts bobbed in the wind, the

bodice a slightly darker from being made cheap and in haste. It hung too loose around my thin waist.

That woman convinced I was almost as big as her, or rather, she believed she was as small as me. My

corset held me fast under the limp fabric. The dull gray color like overused chalkboard was typical of her.

Anything to wash me out and make me as unattractive as possible so those could wonder how

“someone as pretty as her could produce such an ugly child.” My fair features were not hidden, and

people knew it.

She wrinkled her nose, trying to be cute for the guests, they laughed but she looked just as ugly

as before. Perhaps uglier. She wasn’t old though I enjoyed called her a hag. Some might actually

describe her as homey, plump and the kind that would bustle around a house and eat honey as if it

wasn’t as sweet as her. But I knew the truth.

Our argument still rang in my ears. It was about two months ago when she told me the news

about the wedding. She had called me to the den, but I called it her Cave. The wallpaper no longer was

cream but gray, along with everything else. She seemed to suck the life out of everything she touched.

The leather of sofas and chairs were cracked and bleeding cushions, but only in her Cave. The rest of the

house was kept as my father had to fool others.

She said in her high, dull, blunt screech she called a voice, “I am marrying Mr. Anderson in two

months time. You will not interfere nor say any word about it. Now out of my sight.”

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 Mr. Anderson was actually bigger than she was, amazingly inhuman as that seemed. He looked

as though he might have been handsome once. I didn’t like him at all; his voice was higher that hers and

he had an annoyingly strange habit of smelling everything before he ate it. Not to mention he ate

everything… as in not only food, but things on the desk to things in his ear, smelling each and every one.

No wonder his first wife left him. The money must not have been worth it. He was extremely rude and

naïve. Just the fact that he was mating with this woman bloomed the smallest sympathy in my heart.

Somewhere in the very bottom covered in shadow. Dim, but it was there, and I almost laughed at his

stupidity, how he didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

It wasn’t until the next day we had our argument:

“Come back here you skinny little worm!”

“Make me! What are you going to do? Sit on me? Fat lot of good that’ll do. Kill me next why

don’t you!”

“Maybe I will! Get your useless bones out of my way!”

“But you can’t can you.”

“Don’t look at me like that you impudent child. Like hell I won’t!”

“Don’t want your new toy to hear you. You could lose your money. You fat, sorry excuse of a

mother. You’ll eat the rest of your life bankrupted. I dare you to mess with me and see how well your

little wedding goes. Especially if no one’s there. I don’t think the Priest will perform the ceremony for

murderers.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Yes I would. And if you don’t unhand me you’ll find my actions quick.”

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 “Not if I snap your neck now.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Who’s to stop me?”

“No one, but you’re missing half the pleasure of a good kill. You haven’t planned at all on how to

hide yourself. What will be your excuse? That I annoyed you? Posh. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“You rat! I know what you’re doing. Ha! How’s that? Can’t smart mouth if you can’t breathe can

you? But don’t worry, you’re right. I won’t kill you now. I have a wedding. I need to be presentable. And

don’t try running off either. You won’t be let back in when you find yourself starving on the streets. You

leave you die without a penny to your name. You stay; you die after I squeeze every last dime out of

your father’s will. Your choice, but I will have my wedding and you won’t ruin it, understand?”

“You don’t scare me you know.”

“I never believed I did or do. Your eyes reveal nothing. They’re dead already.”

“Unhand me.”

“As a final wish, but mark my words, you will have two months. I suggest doing anything you’ve

always wanted. As long as it’s free. I won’t pay for your trivial pastimes.”

“And you mark me, you won’t see a penny from your sick ceremony, and I intend on doing

something very cheap.”

And that was the end of that. Like usual we were separated until now. I knew she would try to

pull mother-daughter love, but I’d have no part. Let her pay for another daughter for the day. No money

could pay for longer than that with this brat.

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 As the odd yet perfectly matched couple faced each other I slipped away, plucking a red rose

from a bouquet. The wood was familiar enough I didn’t need a path. My isolation from the world

resulted in my familiarity with the trees and brush. I walked with a steady mechanical beat petting the

soft petals, comforting it for having to see the distasteful display before. I reassured myself that she

hadn’t touched them. They were beautiful, but she hated them, called them a molding mess waiting to

happen. I lifted the bulb to my nose and breathed in its sweet perfume. I wanted to feel it swelling and

burst through me with relief in every vein. I wanted to taste it, let it melt on my tongue. But it hardly

reached past my cheeks.

I rested against a tree and sunk to the ground. I wanted to close my eyes and watch the sun

make shapes in my eyelids, but they stayed open. I put the rose to my lips, tapping it to a song I didn’t

know. I watched dead, painted leaves fall. I followed a shadow from a stone slowly make its way to

noon.