I had only just turned twenty when it happened.

Of course, I remember it perfectly, as I have every day since, even when I don't want to. Memories, however are always present, always reminding, always telling. They say the eye's are the windows to the soul. They know absolutely squat.

I had been en route to a soirée that night. My betrothed had finally proposed to me, and we were celebrating before the wedding. I had little affection for him, but he was kind to me, and he was an English nobleman. I sometimes think I could have lived a happy life with him. Then again, it wasn't to be so, and I was more than perfectly content with that.

I was in a carriage, on my way to the manor—not his, a friend's, I believe—in which the evening's event was being held. It wasn't a very long trip, but it was long enough for me to spend stretches of quiet road with only my driver and my thoughts. I've always disliked people, and being around them, especially at large social gatherings. My father was of the English gentry class, however, and my mother of the French, so I had throughout my life been forced into many uncomfortable evening dresses and to act as though I cared about the trivial events in the superficial lives of the nation's wealthy.

That trip I was watching the silhouetted trees, engrossed in thoughts of dread for the coming party, when the carriage violently jerked to the side, rolled, and wound up in a ditch on the side of the seemingly unoccupied road. I had been non-severely injured, but my coachman—whose name I never learned, despite his years of service to my family—had been thrown from the carriage, and died in the fall.

I didn't move for several moments after the carriage stood still, shocked by the suddenness of the accident, and by the throbbing of the right side of my head where it had hit the wall.

"Well that was bloody brilliant. She's of no use to us if she's dead." a man's voice appeared from nowhere, breaking the evening's serenity. I was terrified at the thought of what use anyone would have for me. My terror built as the people outside proceeded to pull the carriage upright and back onto the road.

His voice. Suddenly, the nightmares that had been plaguing me for months returned. Foreboding images flashed before me. Images of death, death personified. So much death. The mortality of humanity…the futility of life...of all our lives…the loneliness of time...and eyes. Large, monstrous eyes. Green eyes, following me…watching me…ever present...always watching…

My body moved against my will as a man dragged me from the broken husk of a carriage and deposited me on the ground. There were two men, both imposingly tall, both in black suits, both wearing spectacles. The only noticeable differences between the two were in hair colour—one had blonde hair, the other light brown, both cut short—and in what I had though that night to be weapon choice: one had attached to his belt a saw of sorts, and the other, the blonde, held a pitchfork.

"Did you collect the man?" the man who had previously spoken, the light-haired one, inquired sharply of the brunette. Collect? My heart, already racing after the crash, began pounding. I knew these men were trouble, and that I needed to run, but I felt faint, and too frightened to move.

"I did." They both loomed over me, just barely visible in the dying light.

"Good. The sooner we finish here the sooner we can go home. It's been a long week, and I've finally been given a weekend off." I felt a warm tear roll down my cheek. I'm going to die. No. That isn't not how the world works. They're going to sell me to an underworld merchant to be turned into a sex slave and a servant. They killed my driver and are going to ensure my own painful demise. They are going to kill me so they could return to their weekends. Just like that, my life is going to be over, stomped out by two devils looking to make me into a quick profit. My life is over. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Alright? That surprised me enough to regain some semblance of an ability to speak. "Wha-what do you want? Please, my family has money! I can pay you, just don't hurt me! Don't hurt me, leave me alone! Please!" I cried pitifully, shielding my face with an arm, knowing how feeble my efforts were.

To my amazement, they looked surprised. The brunette kneeled down next to me. "We aren't here to hurt you." I whimpered and flinched away. "You sure we have the right one? She looks extremely...fragile."

The blonde sighed, and nodded. "Of course she would be frightened. She's human. Thoroughly so. She is, however, an extremely special human in that she can be of great use to us." He pulled a folder from his pocket, and showed the brunette it's contents. "She's without a doubt the girl we've been ordered to find. You shouldn't question the judgement of the higher-ups."

"Of course. I wasn't, I was only double-checking." replied the brunette hastily. "In that case, Miss Hathaway, you're coming with us."

I jerked away from the men, dragging my new gown through mud as I attempted to get up and run, but became tangled in its skirt, and wound up frantically crawling for my life. Through my panting and tears I heard a sigh, and looked up to find that the blonde had caught up to me—not that I was moving quickly at all—and was standing over me, wiping his glasses off on his jacket. He put them back on, murmuring "You frightened her with your diction." He looked down at me. "Here I had hoped you would be more cooperative. Will you not even allow us to explain why we're here?"

I thought of my murdered driver, their monstrous strength, their structured movements and precise language, their weapons that they so casually strut about with. I knew very well why they were here. They were monsters wearing human flesh, members of some criminal organization, looking for money and entertainment, amusing themselves by frightening me as much as possible before killing me.

At that moment I realised in my fear I had forgotten about the small pistol my father gave to me a few years ago—given so he would feel more at ease when I traveled alone—that he had ordered me to keep on my person whenever I went anywhere without either him, my brother, or my fiancée. I fumbled through my skirt's now—filthy ruffles for the pocket in which I had this afternoon placed the gun. I pulled it out, and pointed it at the blonde man.

"I-I'm warning you. Back away. Leave me alone!" He didn't even flinch.

I fired it, at his chest; an easy target, only a metre away. The man vanished. I gasped, and turned to find he was standing next to his companion, who was still near the carriage. Impossible.

"You'll find killing us will be rather difficult. How about you listen instead?" Still sitting on the ground, I fingered the pistol, composedly, contemplating my next move. Then, without breaking eye contact with the blonde creature in the shape of a man, I turned it around on myself.

The last things I noticed before pulling the trigger were the man's eyes; calmly watching me, unnaturally phosphorescent, and coloured chartreuse.