Chapter 1- Arlow POV

My name is Arlow, and fate has decided to royally screw me over. A fate none should suffer from - the fate of the poor, unfortunate souls amongst our world.

Trapped in a dank basement to be exact. A vile, disgusting basement. A worn door behind me. Old, torn paintings to my left. In front of me a window barely bigger than my infinitesimal fist. And to my right, I observe my savior. My emancipator. My possible rescue.

A rusting, copper key on the dull wall, if only I could reach it. The unique key, admittedly quite a queer one at that, shines with a pentacle adorned on the handle. But, but, but a quarter of the circle is missing, most likely broken off during a scuffle. It was unquestionably unmade that way with the jagged metal sticking out this way and that.

Intermixed metal bars - iron, copper, brass, or steel? I can't specify at this time, for they were so oxidized that I could scarcely tell. I reach out to stroke it with my cold, dry fingertips. I feel the rough patch-work welding of the metal.

A sharp pain shoots through my unknowing hand as I cut my finger on a corner. I keenly watch as the blood bubbles from the scrape and runs, slow as a drizzle, down my dainty finger and onto my hand. A drop falls onto the pale white dress I awoke in. For some unapparent reason, it soothed me even though the blood was naturally my life, my liberty, and my freedom trickling away as I remained trapped…

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I wake to a creaking door and the shrill screech of rust against rust. I swiftly dash to the back corner - the farthest away from my mysterious captor. As the squealing ceased, the door was swung open with an ear-splitting crack as it ricochets off of the wall.

She, I assume is a woman, is tall and lean. A black hoodie covers the majority of her body - all the way to her mid-thigh. Under is a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a set of black Converse. The up hood conceals the majority of her pale face. The only visible features are a sharp jawline and fair skin.

"Lo-look who's up?" The mysterious woman began awkwardly, stuttering as she went. "I didn't expect you to have woken up yet." Her voice has the lilt of a teenager - at most a young adult - and soon I will acquire the vocabulary of a sailor.

She scarcely undertook a hesitant step forward and feebly attempted another. Heed my words - the innocent girl attempted to. She tripped on a piece of wood that had fallen from the collapsing ceiling sometime before I came to. The leg had given out from underneath her and she yelled an unsavory word as she landed on her ankle. Her hood falls away from her face to show blond hair pulled into a messy bun, an off-white skin shade- like seriously does she ever go outside - and vivid violet eyes.

"SHIT!" The blonde yells as she stands up again. I keep contemplating her in wonder thinking about why this girl no older than I imprisoned me. Why am I here? Why her of all people? Why?

"Hey!" I heard her yell frantically in my sensitive ears. I squeaked and scrambled away from the girl. "Sorry, sorry, y-you just didn't answer after a few times so." She trailed off and rubbed the back of her neck. I don't know how to respond to that - was it out of spite or ... was she worried about me?

I dwell on the thought silently for the remainder of the conversation as she discusses miscellaneous topics. One topic, however, inevitably comes back to an infamous murder that is well recognized among the cities. She continuously says odd phrases like; 'you already know that' or 'as we both know' but the weird thing is … I don't understand. I have no idea who or what this beast is! Whoever the unknown assassin is I have no idea, but I've never heard of this.

Have I been out of it for that long?

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The girl is still sitting in front of me by the time I manage to pull myself out of my dreadful thoughts. The thing is, she has stopped talking incessantly. She is completely silent as she lays on her stomach and draws in what I assume is a sketch pad. Her agile strokes carefully cover the page. Each mark is of key importance to the visual- which is saying a lot for there must be hundreds of them. As she draws, I notice the concentration upon her face. A slight grimace when she makes a mistake, a nod of the head when they approve of the progress, and a bite of the lip when she is neither - just drawing.

After about 10 minutes I finally realize what, or I should say who, he's drawing. Well lo-and-behold, I am looking at a remarkable drawing of me. Me, of all simple people. Me sitting awkwardly in a molding dungeon. Me behind mismatched bars for unknown reasons. Me in deep thought with a pensive look in my eyes as I think about the murders- What murders? Do people actually do that or is it just a story people tell their children so they behave?

I sit and realize how much of the world I don't know about...