The clicking of her heels on the cobblestone resonated in perfect syncopation with the rain that stained the street in a canvas of gray. The symphony was a comforting tune like that of a remembered nursery rhyme.
Slender fingers moved to turn the collar of her jacket closer to the alabaster skin of her neck as she drew closer to her apartment. This wasn't the greatest part of town. It wasn't uncommon to hear some tragedy had occurred on Belgrave Street through the television or radio or, more times than not, just through the grape vine.
It wasn't a few nights ago that she had come across a prostitute being thrown from a car. The young girl’s pale skin had been bloody and torn from the impact of the unforgiving road and her bright red hair a wild mess of fire. Instances like these are what paint this street in apprehension and fear.
Dark eyes cast their attention to the telephone lines strung above her head as she walked. The strings acting like webs ready to trap their next unsuspecting victim in their grip. These webs didn't appear to be the dwellings of spiders on this dreary night, but rather birds. A murder of crows watched the streets beneath them, dark vigils casting judgment on the soggy mortals below.
The keys in her hand were so frigid that they felt like they burned the skin of her palm as she unlocked the door. This outing had been longer than she'd thought it was going to be. The same delicate fingers that had held her jacket now moved to the table that waited patiently by the door. The handle of the scalpel held a familiar warmth, like the greeting of a loved one, as she plucked it from its resting place. With practiced diligence, she brought the sharp blade up to rest at her temple.
She had been seen too many times today. She thought the dreary clouds and hints of rain would have kept most people inside, but that had not been the case. Curious, attentive eyes and even those with a hint of recognition, had gazed a second too long at this face.
What would it be like, she wondered, to be cursed with wondering eyes? To be forever searching for a speck of color in a world that was doomed with grays. She'd never know.
Her hand, scalpel still pressed to her skin, moved down with careful precision to the end of her chin.
She'd met a man today, in a small coffee shop that smelled of familiarity and was furnished to look like home. His presence went unnoticed by most, a ghost among men, with a weathered book resting on his knee and a coffee in his hand. No steam rose from the amber liquid, most likely chilled by neglect. His unobtrusive presence is what captured her attention.
The edge of the scalpel continued its path from the end of her chin, up the left side of her face, and found her other temple.
He must have felt her eyes upon him. One minute, his irises were scanning the words on yellowed pages, and the next, they were looking at her. A thousand words burned in their gazes,though none passed their lips. A smile cracked through the nervous tension that had hardened on his face, causing her to do the same. Her hand found its way into her vibrant red hair in a show of faux reservation.
With careful, calculated steps she made her way toward the stranger. Her smile grew wicked in nature but sultry in appearance as she watched his eyes break her gaze to take in her form. The unmistakable veil of desire clouded the stranger’s eyes by the time she drew near enough to initiate conversation.
"My place, ten o'clock," were the only words spoken between the two. She passed him a card with her address on Belgrave Street printed on it. Speech must have escaped him because he only managed to nod in reply. She shot him a wink before turning to leave the coffee shop, making sure her hips spoke volumes as she walked.
Her hand moved the scalpel across her forehead until the incision connected with its origin point. She placed the blade back in its place on the table. Careful fingers rose to the cut on her forehead and expertly wormed through the layers until she managed to gain a grip on the skin. With slow, methodical effort she began to peel the covering from her face, hands moving so that nothing would rip or tear.
Once the layer of skin was no longer attached she placed it into a jar that waited patiently beside the tools resting on the table. The green liquid inside the jar sloshed a bit as the once living mask was placed inside of it. She screwed the lid on the jar tight before lifting it to gaze at its contents. This one had been a favorite, the first she'd come across in quite some time.
She moved through her apartment to an old door. Upon opening it, she was met with the welcoming sight of her collection. Dozens of jars filled with green liquid lined the shelves, each a home to one of her previous lives. Careful hands set her newest trophy in its place, stepping back to look upon it like one would when watching an accident; they know it's horrific, but are unable to resist the beauty of its chaos.
The chiming of the old clock in her living room released her from the spell the collection had trapped her in. Not a second after the old grandfather had bid her the time did a knock sound on her door. Perfect.
Her heels called out her movement along the hard floor as she approached the door. Slender fingers reached out to grip the handle.