From the grimy window of a squalid London bathroom contained within an even more squalid apartment building, the sixteen year-old girl stared at her pale skin on her left arm. She could see the goosebumps visible upon that skin as if trying to warn her against what she was thinking of doing. The girl slowly turned her arm so her wrist was facing up and looked at the veins visible behind the parchment of her skin. She could close her eyes and imagine the blood pumping through these veins, like great rivers down a broken landscape, the only source of life in something otherwise very much dead.
The girl suddenly stood up from the closed lid of the toilet as if the very thought of death struck electricity through her nerves. Was it the current of fear, or the current of excitement? The girl did not know.
She looked at the book leaning against the window, its glossy pastel cover-art staring at her. It depicted a creature pale and noseless, with sharp black nails and even sharper white teeth. The pits of its eyes were dark with small pinpricks of red pupils. From a dark hole in its chest, snakes writhed and turned in on themselves. The book cover was slightly marked with fingerprints, the edges frayed and worn. It was a well-loved, well-revered book.
"What do you think?" The girl asked, her voice timid and soft, nearly lost in the tiny bathroom. "Am I excited, Lord? Am I scared?" She felt no embarrassment at her words, no humiliation for speaking to the cover. For her, this book was no simple fictional tale, that demonic creature on the cover no simple piece of art drawn by a human's hand. No, this book was her bible, the creature very real. Its teeth moved, its lipless mouth speaking to her.
"It is not fear nor excitement you must feel, Penelope."
"I know," Penelope nodded at the creature on the front of the book. If any were to walk in to the room right now, they would simply have seen a teenager speaking to a motionless book but there were none that evening to intrude on Penelope's mind. "I know what I must feel."
"I am glad. I crave not either of those two things."
"You crave loss," Penelope's timid voice whispered.
"Indeed I do, poor girl."
Penelope looked away from the book and into the mirror. Her own pallid reflection stared back at her. Her eyes were sunken, her cheeks devoid of any health, her hair stringed and knotted. As she stared at her own skeletal appearance, her eyes filled with conviction. "I will give you loss, Lord."
The knife was leant next the book like some kind of trophy. It was a simple kitchen knife, black handled, spots of rust dotting the edges. Penelope had taken it a week before, let her parents wonder where it went, and when they ultimately had realised that one of them – amidst the shouting argument about it – had lost it, Penelope had taken it here once they had gone. Her father would be at the pub, no doubt in his tenth or eleventh glass by now. Her mother would be God knows where, sticking needles in her arm and bemoaning her slut of a daughter.
Penelope quickly squeezed her eyes shut at that word. It was a bad word. A word of lies. A simple word that had evolved into so much more. A word that had brought this very night to pass. A word that had defined what Penelope was to do right now, if she could work up the courage.
"I have," Penelope murmured. She reached to the windowsill stained with black mould and took the knife. It felt heavy in her grasp, feeling like it was tugging at her shoulders. Nevertheless, Penelope held it in front of her, spun it around. There was no reflection to be had in the dulled metal, but the blade was rough and serrated amidst the dull and rusted knife. She hovered the knife over her upturned wrist and mimed pulling it across. "I can do it. I will do it."
"Then do it," the demon cooed from its perch. "Give me loss. Offer me it, display it to me on a field of red. You are strong, Penelope, stronger than they think. I see it within you, that strength, blooming. Do not allow them to control you any longer. You are free to do as you please, Penelope."
"I am," Penelope nodded. She pressed the knife against her wrist, so thin that it seemed to press against bone rather than muscle. "I am not what they say I am."
"You are not."
"I can be whoever I want to be."
"You can."
"They don't care about me…" Penelope grit her teeth. With the knife still pressed against her wrist, she looked at the mirror again. She was crying, her tears spilling down her hollow cheeks, past her bony jaw. "I have no place here."
"You do not. I have a place for you, Penelope, so come."
"I will."
"Do not hesitate."
"I won't."
"So what are you waiting for?" The creature's voice hissed in her ear and for a moment Penelope could feel its presence behind her, its shadow pressing into her. There was no fear though. Only admiration. It was not the embrace of something terrible, but rather the embrace of something sorrowful, as if comforting her after the death of a relative. An embrace Penelope had never felt nor, as far as she could believe, ever would. "Give me what I wish."
Penelope looked back down to her wrist. Her already tight grip tightened even more. What life she had was no life at all, Penelope knew it. No more would she be subject to the whims of her parents, of school, of all of them. She was the one in charge of her own fate, she was the one holding the knife.
She pulled the knife across her wrist.
Penelope opened her eyes, the sharp stabbing cold of the shower water washing over her back and neck. She looked to her left arm and amidst the many scars there, sat her first, seeming so much more vivid than the rest. She had wanted to give her loss that night but life's cruel grip kept her alive, bleeding out in that grimy bathroom floor until she was discovered unconscious by her drunk father. Somehow she had ended up in hospital and that was when it all started. All the speeches, and the warnings, and how life was worth it, and that dark times would always pass.
"Dark times will never pass," Penelope whispered to the shower wall. She shook her head of past memories and turned off the water, stepping dripping onto the towel already laid out. With another she dried herself off, scrubbing all around her body except for her arms. For each arm she patted lightly with a small towel, ensuring she would not disrupt the scars. Even though they were memories long past, Penelope had always found her scars would hurt if anything was to brush against them, sometimes to the point of agony.
Walking carefully to the cabinet, Penelope opened it and picked out one of many rolls of white fabric inside. She would go through one of these rolls a day, constantly ensuring she had new bandages at every dawn. It was part of her ritual, having the cold shower for exactly the right length of time, drying herself off, following the same route with the small towel across the unmarred paths on her arms.
Doctor Evans had once told her having a ritual would help disrupt the darkness. For Penelope, the ritual helped her embrace them. She could feel its presence still, a comforting touch of her shadowed Lord. He had not spoken to her since her admittance to Hearthome, but Penelope always knew he was there, guiding her every move. No one ever knew of the Lord, not even those closest to Penelope, not even Doctor Evans and even if he did suspect, he had died before he ever got the chance to ask.
Penelope slowly wrapped the bandages first around her thumb to hook it in place, then up the rest of her arm, stopping just above the elbow. She tore the bandage with her teeth; under no circumstances was Penelope to have any sharp objects. It had taken a long time to be allowed unsupervised around Hearthome, and even then, for things such as eating at the cafeteria, she would have to use plastic spoons that were to be booked in and out like an armoury, so she did not try to make them into any tools to cut herself. Penelope's urge to cut herself had dissipated just before her arrival to Hearthome however, but in order to hide the presence of the Lord, she played up the suicide angle as best as she could.
With the arms done, Penelope bent down and did the same to her equally scarred ankles, wrapping from ankle to knee. She had found she could draw quite a bit of blood from her feet, much to the chagrin of her doctors back in London.
As always, the last of the bandage was used and Penelope dressed herself with the neatly folded clothes sitting on top of the counter. She stepped out of the bathroom and as always sat down at the chess table sitting in the middle of the room. In fact, it was as if her room was built around the chess table. Every morning she would play a game, and every night she would play another. In her room, she told the doctors she was playing against herself, but no, the Lord was guiding her hand. He had introduced her to the game and Penelope found chess a wonderful – if not sustainable – escape from her terrible teenage years before she took the knife.
Penelope paused, staring down at the board as she sat. She would set the board every time she had finished a game, but the board was not set. In fact, it appeared to be in mid-game, the black pieces seemingly dominating the white.
"Checkmate."
Penelope slowly glanced up. Sitting on the edge of her bed, as if one with the shadows, was the ragged form of Conner Shepherd, a maddening smile upon his face. Penelope did not move.
"Look at you," Conner said. "Playing it cool. I respect that. Not going to shout or scream?"
"Conner," Penelope said his name slowly. She glanced to the window of her room and saw it was wide open. Being on the ground floor, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for Conner to get in, although windows couldn't be opened from the outside. She looked back to Conner. He looked a mess, his clothes and skin stained with mud, dirt under his nails like an animal, his usual wild hair even more-so. That smile dominated his face. It was like the smile of somebody who had won a big contest. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh come on, Penelope. You know why I'm here." Conner stood up from the bed.
"If I did, I would not have asked the question," Penelope watched Conner's form, wary of some kind of attack. The man was content to stay still though, his body full of confidence.
"I'm here because I know what you have done," his eyes sparkled. "I know what Paulie has done."
"Paulie?" Penelope crossed her arms. "If you're referring to his cigarettes, that is not exactly a well-kept secret."
"I don't give a flying fuck about his smoking. Nah, nah, I care about the mask he wore when he took that Ollie boy. When he ran away from me."
"Mask? Conner, you look as if you've been outside for a while. I suspect your mind is not in a healthy place."
"Oh, it couldn't be any more healthy," Conner walked slowly from one side of the room to the other, staying in front of Penelope all the time. "Y'see, I like a good case, a good investigation. It brings me back to the old days before things got fucked. It was nice – frustrating, no doubt – but nice, to try and figure it all out."
"You should leave, Conner," Penelope said quietly.
"Do you not want to hear about my deductions? It's the best part of any good investigation."
"No, I do not want to hear about whatever it is you are talking about," Penelope sighed. "If you are angry that I told the orderlies about you, what did you expect? They questioned me as soon as they saw me."
"Yes, but only moments before you warned me that they were looking for me. Why do that, and then sell me out to them?"
"If an orderly asks where someone suspected of violence is, I'm going to tell them no matter what I think of the orderlies in question. I warned you about it because, as I said to you and Robyn, I don't agree with a lot of what the orderlies do."
"Look at you, with all the answers, I love it when they try and act like they don't know what's going on." Conner stood in front of the chessboard and looked down at the sitting Penelope. "You think I don't know? About what happened that night with Ollie and Imogen and John? About what you masks did to them?"
"You certainly seem to know more than I do," Penelope was growing annoyed with that smug smile on Conner's face.
"Pigritia…" Conner said the name slowly, almost drawling, like he was savouring it. "The woman with the tattoos. The woman with the mask with three stars. The woman who John attacked when he was taken." Conner leaned forward like a poker player about to announce a winning hand. "I know about the marks on your neck, I saw it when you sold me out. That's when I realised it was you who was involved in taking John. And when I found out about what happened down there… oh boy, did it all become clear. People wear masks to hide from other people who might know them. Being a resident, man, that's a good way to learn a lot of information."
"You got all that from marks on my neck?" Penelope raised an eyebrow. Her annoyance was turning to boredom. "You've got sharp eyes, Conner. But basing whatever accusations these seem to be because of that may have been an embarrassing mistake." Penelope pulled back her hair, revealing the marks on her neck. "I didn't get attacked or anything as dramatic as you seem to be making out. When I think hard, I have a tendency of leaning on my hand, pressing my nails in my neck. Like so," Penelope leaned down on her chessboard, as she had done many a morning and many a night, and put her palm on her neck, three fingers tapping against the marks. "Rather mundane for your theory, don't you think."
"I've heard some far-fetched stories but that takes the bloody cake," Conner scoffed. "So what about the wink, hm? Winking at me like you did, a cocky mistake. If I wasn't certain when I saw your marks, that would have been enough to make me suspect, don't you think?"
"I've not winked at anybody in my life," Penelope shrugged. "I can't explain what you think you saw—"
"What you think I saw?" Conner's smile was flashing dangerously now.
"Conner, come now. Your accusations make no sense. Your stories make no sense. But it makes me wonder why you have come to me like this and really it seems there's one conclusion I can make. You need a scapegoat, and the scapegoat appears to be me."
"What?" Penelope's statement appeared to take Conner off guard and he took a step back.
"Rumours in Hearthome are like grass in a field – always present. Orderlies talk to residents, residents talk to other residents. Rumours of men in masks are nothing new in the last couple of days, Conner. You're not special about knowing about some masks. Some residents even claimed to have seen you run after a man in a mask. Running after? Or running with? You accuse me of all of this nonsense but you are doing it alone, one-on-one, without any orderlies or any investigators. So I think you are trying to threaten me, trying to scare me, and you want to try and spread a tale that I am somebody in a mask. I say, there is more evidence that you are one of these masks trying to crawl out of the hole you found yourself in. I heard rumours about what you might have done to Sullivan. You're a violent and an angry person, Conner, perhaps you use a mask to channel that."
"Oh you fuckin'…" Conner squeezed his fists closed, sucked in a breath, and exhaled. "You think you can try and manipulate events like that?"
"You seem to want to give me your theories so I thought I'd give you one of my own, that's all." Penelope shrugged. "I don't truly believe you're a person in a mask. It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it. Just like you suggested I am. I just think you're struggling mentally, much as we all do in Hearthome. Stop running from the orderlies Conner, and see someone. Get help. You want to rid the rumours behind your past, then do something about it."
"Hah… Hahaha…" Conner's laugh had no humour in it. "Manipulation through and through, Penelope. You're good, I'll admit, you're very fuckin' good. Much better than Paulie. Guess that's why you called the shots."
"Conner." It was Penelope's turn to stand up. "You were hanging around Robyn when Sullivan died so I would happily bet that you know about the List. Robyn is very talkative and with how you two got so close so fast, she definitely asked for your help after Noah was taken and you agreed to it. If you know about the List, you know that I'm on it, so you know I've got a whole boat-load of things to worry about than some spurious accusations based on a mark on my neck and a presumptuous wink!"
"Ah, the List, the List. Of course I know about the List. And that's why you took John, Ollie, and Banks. To get information on the List. I think you people in masks are some kind of group and I think you accidentally got embroiled in the List and you want out. I knew someone on the List had to be involved in the group and you are the only one that fits."
"For Christ's sake, Conner," Penelope finally lost her temper. "You need to stop this! You need to get yourself some kind of help! Count yourself lucky I haven't shouted for help seeing as you've snuck into my room like this. You seemed to have a pretty good deal, right? We know you've got some special stuff in your rooms, you've got knives, and darts, things normal residents just can't have. Why are you screwing up something that so many of us would love to have? We are all here because we need help and you are causing a lot of issues. People are scared, Conner, scared of you, and what you may have done in the past and what you may be doing now. They call you a bogeyman, a ghoul, sneaking around at night and stabbing people while they sleep! This doesn't help anything or anyone! Robyn cares about you now, she's constantly asking after you, claiming you're not involved in what the orderlies want you for. You're letting her down, Conner, you're becoming just what everyone fears in you, do you understand?"
Conner sat back on the bed, staring at Penelope. "Who are you trying to persuade, Penelope? It's just you and me here."
"I'm trying to persuade you, Conner, to give this up."
"You never give up a case, Penelope. Fine, I'll leave. Well, I'll leave after you show me your arms." Conner's eyes glinted again.
"What?"
"Take off your bandages. Show me what's under there."
Penelope grit her teeth. "Just because you are comfortable showing off your scars doesn't mean I am with mine."
"If you've got nothing to hide then you'll show me. Or do you wear them because you're hiding something else? Tattoos, perhaps?"
"Tattoos? Conner, you sound like a conspiracy theorist, even moreso than Robyn herself. I'm not showing you my arms, I keep them private for a reason."
"So you're not going to prove your innocent?"
"I don't need to prove I'm innocent."
"So show me!" Conner suddenly darted forward, reaching out with a grasping hand. Penelope acted on instinct and in one swift, almost dance-like movement she grabbed his hand, pulled it over her shoulder, and slammed him back-first against the floor.
"Don't you dare touch me!" Penelope breathed, letting go of Conner's arm and darting back as he scampered to his feet, eyes bright with anger. "I'm not scared of you or what you've done, Conner Shepherd. But I guess the rumours are right. You're a beast. Trying to attack me? Kill me?"
"What?! I was doing neither, I was going for your ban—"
"You want me to show you?" Penelope's nostrils flared. She grabbed the bandages of her left arm she had so studiously wrapped around just minutes before. "You want me to reopen wounds that we spend months trying to heal, having meetings with doctors and speaking our hearts and trying to get better?" Penelope tore the bandages off her left arm, throwing them to the floor. She grabbed a fistful of the right bandages. "Fine, Conner, fine, take what you want, get your answers, and disappear back into the darkness like the creature you are!" Penelope tore the right bandages off, dropped them to the ground, and held up both arms. "Have a look. What tattoos do you see? Tell me, Conner. Tell me!"
Conner stared and Penelope saw the confusion, the doubt, and the defeat on his face. He stared at her arms, marked only with scars across her wrists. Otherwise her arms were pale. There were no tattoos.
"You're no detective, Conner. You're scum, plain and simple," Penelope said quietly.
Conner opened his mouth as if to respond, and then closed it again.
Penelope looked to the chess-board again, where the black pieces were dominating the white, in apparent checkmate. She walked over to it, turning her back on Conner. "You should never declare a victory before you are absolutely certain," she whispered, reaching for a white bishop that Conner had overlooked, using it to take the castle that was keeping her king in checkmate, and thus putting it in direct line of sight with Conner's king. She flicked over Conner's king with a finger.
When Penelope turned back around, Conner was gone. She closed her eyes, feeling the comforting grasp of her Lord in her mind.
Silently, quietly, all to herself, Penelope smiled.
"Checkmate."