I have not seen very many people since coming here. It is as if everyone is avoiding me. I know I like to be alone and have my privacy, but this is ridiculous! A voice, from the back of my mind spits, "That's because you are a monster! No one loves a freak! You'll always be alone!" I can feel tears well up in my eyes. But before they can spill, I feel him, my soul, my past incarnation, Erik, rise to the forefront, and give me strength and resolve. I will go outside this single floor. After all is it not my house? Not a prison, but rather an escape? An escape from the grief-shrouded house I have lived in for five years since grandpapa died.
"Hello?" I call out. Is there anybody out there?
"Mademoiselle?" Someone has answered! There must be someone here!
I walk down the stairs, out of the gloomy shadows of the fourth floor that I have stayed in for the past couple days. There is a sweet smell in the air, as of someone baking. My stomach growls at me, betraying my hunger and all-too-human need for food. I follow the sweet smell to the kitchen, a big, airy, light-filled room. There is only one person occupying the room besides me. If asked, I would have to say she is in her middle to late forties. Her hair is of the salt-and –pepper variety, although at this point, it is more pepper than salt. She is certainly a most curvaceous woman, but in a matronly sort of manner. She turns around and wipes her flour-covered hands on a towel nearby.
"Well, hello there! Finally decided to join the world of the living, eh?"
Behind my mask, I can feel myself cringe. Her words unknowingly stung me deep inside. Besides looking like a corpse, ii am the object of horror more often than not. And that is why it hurts me when someone refers to me as being among the dead.
"Well don't just stand there, come in! Sit down. Have a taste or two," the lady invites. I walk over to the small table and sit down on a hardback chair. The smell is almost overpowering. I may not be able to resist much longer. But I do not want to take off my mask, cause my countenance would surely frighten the lady out of her mind. "Well, go on, eat what you like, sir. Surely you must be hungry…" She trails off. She looks at me and sees my mask. She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. "You don't need no mask 'round me, no sir. I ain't afraid, if that's what you're wondering. I came from America, where, when I was younger, I served in a hospital for war veterans. So I've seen some bad things done to people, and some people who are horribly scarred, but they never wore a mask. It can't be that bad."
"Are you so sure, madam?" I speak icily.
"Go ahead and take it off, I don't mind. Really."
I reach up behind my head and nimbly unknot the black ribbon with my skeletal hands. I then carefully remove the black full-face mask. I can feel the warm air against my bare skin. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable scream or gasp of horror. But nothing assaults my ears but the sound of silence. I open my eyes. She is not staring at all.
"Are you not frightened?" I ask.
"Of course not!" She laughs. "I feel bad that the world has forced you behind a mask. What is your name?"
"Aria Amelle Guirre, Comtess de Guirre, Lord of Shadowlocke. But you may call me Aria, though. In fact I'd rather not be called my Lady or Comtess. And what is your name, you who are not frightened by the face of death?"
"True you could gain a lot by a nose and some cosmetic surgery, but…" God! Could this woman get any more bold and obvious? "My name, Aria, is Madame Anne McGregor. You can call me Anne or Annie, if you prefer. Go ahead, try something."
I eye her suspiciously. Does she want me to eat in front of her? She would not object? Wouldn't it be rude? "I don't want to be rude," I whisper. I feel guilty for even thinking about eating.
"Oh, you won't be rude," she dismisses my objections. "I already ate, and seeing as you are the true master of the house, it would not matter anyways. Have a few biscuits and some jam. The biscuits are an old family recipe straight from the South. And there's strawberry jam and butter if you want."
"Thank you, Madame Anne. I'll have the strawberry jam, because that is my favorite." The cook, or baker, for I do not know which she is—if not both—brings a plateful (it is a small plate, so there are only two), and then goes back to what she was doing before I came. I finish the biscuits, excuse myself from the table (I had manners drilled into me at a very early age.), and leave the sunny, cozy, warm kitchen. Somewhere in the house a clock chimes three times. I think I shall explore the house and grounds a bit…