It's a hit.

I did it.
I landed a hit in training today.
She was sparring with me,
she had a knife.

She lunged at me.
I twisted my body and the knife missed me.
It got caught in my top.
I brought my knee up and hit her arm with it.

Then the knife came free.
She jabbed me in the nose
I then felt so much pain in my shoulder.

I fell back and the knife came with me.
I was bleeding.
It hurt so bad.
I cried a lot.

When she cut me,
I cried a little.
But this hurt so much more.

She just told me to shut up and deal with it.
She doesn't show emotion unless it suits her.
I ran back off into the makeshift bedroom.
She did not follow me.

She's an actor.
She says I need to be able to take pain like that.
She says that otherwise I won't be able to do my job.

I ask what I am to be.

She does not answer.

I am tired.

Everything hurts.

Perhaps the bullet will bring an end to it.

I am not cut out for this, she must be mistaking me for someone else.

A new letter.

I wake up this morning.
I find something resting upon my chest.
Another brown envelope.

Once again, as soon as I pick it up.
The envelope falls apart.
I type it up during my break and post it.

I do the rest of my training.
I ask Salome about the letters.

She shouts at me,
She tells me to never read these.
I don't understand why.
She says I don't need to.

I post it here
I typed it up before I asked.
I had a feeling that I would need to.
I show whoever is watching me, what it said:

" 

October 20th, 1887

As always Mother, here is the message from Jules. If you have tasks for me to fulfil, I would do them gladly.

Dear Ember Fay

I hope that you are well this October day. In London, it is icy, the streets are slippery and the air has a bite that is difficult to describe. It makes me wish for warmer times, the mild winters of my beloved Marseilles in the orphanage, along with a few more blankets, perhaps someone to keep warm with.

Of course, onto the main part of the letter.

I encountered the most curious of things the other day. There was an attempted burgulary upon a residence in Cobb Street. Given reports of such things happening to other people. I was assigned to investigate. Of course, I interviewed the young woman who discovered him. She was a local Street Worker who went by the name of "Fairy Fay." It seems like you are not the only one using a new name.

She was... Applying her trade, when she saw a man at the foot of her bed. When he was spotted he escaped through the window. She said he wore a face like that of an ungodly creature on a mask. She called him Springheeled Jack.

Yes, you could laugh at such a childish fantasy, but it does not explain the fact that this is the second of such cases in as many months.

It may also interest you to know that in this occasion, he fell three storeys.

We spent the next week, interviewing doctors and pharmacists, the coroner assures me that such a fall would cause injuries that would make walking near impossible. And to our surprise, we discovered someone, someone who matched the description of the attacker and the injuries.

Upon interview, he was clearly of ill humour. I enclose a transcript of the interview. If I am to take this lunatic seriously, I would like to start researching “Father” post-haste.

I await your orders, and your return.

Jules Chernier.

[Interview of Mr. John Smith starts: 19:32 PM 20th October 1887 Interviewers Special Detective Jules Chernier and Detective Wilfred Drake]

C- So. Mr Smith.

S- Yes Detective?

C- How did you receive such a dreadful wound to your foot? Does it not hurt?

S- I landed fell out of b [screaming] please help me. Stop! It hurts!

C- Stop what? Did you see anything Detective?

D- Not at all. He just started scremaing.

C- How curious, such a thing could send a man to Bedlam. Do you not agree?

D- I would agree to that, Mr Chernier, he would be a good subject don't you think? You know they test on people, don't you?

C- Possibly, although he'd have to answer our questions if he didn't want to.

S- Please no. Not you Father. Not you. You made me do it before, I'll be good I'll be good. [Screaming]

C- Well, tell me about this Father.

S- He made me do it, he made me do it all, he hurts he kills he's evil. I don't want to do it, he watches me, over and over and over and over.

C- So you admit to being in Fairy Fay's home on the night?

S- I had to be, he made me.

D- He?

S- Father.

D- Who is Father?

S- [Laughter] Want to know? Come closer.

D- [Screaming] My ear, you tore off my ear.

S- [Laughter] It looked like it tasted nice. Father likes it when people taste nice.

C- Of course... Get to a hospital Detective Drake. Mr Smith, I am hereby formally charging you with attempted murder, attempted burgulary, and resisting arrest.

S- But I'm not resisting arrest [Screaming]

C- Yes you are, Mon Ami. Interview over.

[Interview end at 19:42] "

I don't think about it.
Salome tells me not to think. 
Occasionally I am scared she will shoot me 
if I don't do what she says. 

How am I?

I woke up today in an unfamiliar place
it felt like I had been sleeping for years
every bone in my body was aching.

The house wasn't a house.

It was a tall office block.

I panic. 

I try and run.

She pulls the gun on me and tells me. 
A bullet is the only way out for me. 
She looks at me like I'm nothing.
The day always goes like this:

I wake up,
I eat,
I run until I'm sick.

I rest for ten minutes exactly.

I run again.

I eat lunch. 

I spar with her.
She has a knife. 
I lose and get cut. 

She gives the knife to me.
I try and cut her.
She takes it back and cuts me instead. 

I learn that what she had on the day she saw me, 
was a gun.


I am not good at shooting but she says I need to practice.

Six accurate shots in four seconds. 

I eat and then 
I sleep. 

I don't know why I am doing this.
I don't think about it.
I never think about it.
It's too much effort to think about it.  

What am I?

I wake up.
I get dressed.
I find my name.
I have eggs for breakfast.


I eat.


I almost finish.


I hear a knock on the door.


I ignore it,
no one knocks on my door.
I sit down again
I finish eating.


I hear it again.
I walk toward the door. 
I reach for the doorknob.
I don't touch it.


A third knock. 
I swing the door open and see someone.
She has a metal thing, it looks dangerous.
I back up against the wall and she rounds on me.


"You're lucky." She says matter of factly.
Whatever it was pointed at my face,
it had a hole in one end and it bent into a handle.
Like a revolver but it was blocky. Two squares.


"You should be dead by now." She is older than me.
Maybe thirty, her grey-blue eyes are cold as she regards me. 
I slide down the wall.
I cry again.


"And you will be if you don't do what I tell you." 
It's not a joke.
I look up.
I speak.


Words catch in my mouth.
I have not talked in so long.
"Who are you and what do you want?" 
I stutter, my throat hurts. 


"My name is Salome, and my want is to follow Mother's orders."
I remember the name. It is in the back of my mind.


























































What....  

 What is it.  

 The letter. Ember said something about "Mother."  

"What orders?" 

 "To teach you who you are."   

  

 I don't have a choice. 

  

 I have to find out. 

When am I?

I wake up.
I look at the blog.
I remember the blog.
I don't remember anything normally.

I read through my posts.
I realize that this could have been going on for years.
I realize I could have forgotten so much time. 
I cry a little bit.

I hear a sound at the door.
I see something hit the floor.
It is an envelope.
I swing open the door.

I run outside.
I look around.
Nothing. 
I cry again.

I know that Envelopes do not just appear out of nowhere.
I know they are delivered. 
I look at the envelope, it says "Ember Fay." 
I know that is my name. 

I see the paper is old.

The envelope falls apart in my hands.

I hold it gingerly and open the contents. 

I stare at the letter.
I read.
I look confused.
I remember my blog.

I write what it says, up onto the computer. It is dated October Sixth, 1887

 "

August 15th, 1887

Mother,

Here is the transcript of my interview with Jules Chenier, as per your orders. I must say, it is an honour to act as your messenger.

I came across Jules Chenier from across the floor of the Queen Victoria Inn, he seemed like an interesting sort, but he was sat alone, nursing a tankard of ale. When I approached him he smiled at me, like he had been expecting a young member of society like myself to join him. Do not get me wrong, Jules is by no means old, but I am simply younger.

“You are the one I am supposed to meet?”

“I am Ember Fay.” I replied quietly, it is not my real name, as you well know Mother. “All I am here to do is ask some questions and pass on a message from Mother.”

He looked at me for a second. “Y-Yes of course.” He smiled at me a little, his fingers dancing on the desk like he had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

“So what do you do?” I asked nonchalantly.

“I work for the Metropolitan Police as a Special Detective due to my nationality.” He kept his voice low, as if he were holding a secret meeting.
“That's nice, but I wasn't talking about Work, that information is what I already know. What do you do?”
“You mean in the time I am not at work?” He smiled a little. “I make friends.”

“What sort of friends?”

“Friends of whom I do not discuss with strangers.” He had a small glint in his brown eyes, something about that unnerved me. He leaned closer. “Drink with me.” He murmured, going to the bar ordering another healthy tankard for me.

“Where are you staying?” He asked me, sipping at his tankard.

“Here and there.” I replied.

“Come. Stay with me.” He cried.

“I'm afraid I cannot good sir.” I returned. “I have more work to do, other messages to deliver.”

“Oh.” He looked forlorn. “So shall we get this interview properly done?”

“Yes, of course Detective.” I straightened up, sipping at the alcohol. “What is your favourite smell?”
“That is easy. The smell of someone just after you have made love. Sweat mixed with French parfum.” I blushed at that, smiling a little, my eyes flickered downward. He noticed. “Does that offend you?” I shook my head. He's French, I am English. They are always the more passionate.

“No. Of course not. I am just not used to such a...” I paused, looking for the word. “Detailed response.” I coughed and looked at my tankard once more, then proceeding to change the subject. “What is the most terrifying thing you've ever come across?”

He frowned. “I had a young man take me hostage once. He had a knife against my throat. I was forced to kill him.”

I assume I looked aghast if I were to consider the way he looked at me. “You have murdered?”

“In the line of duty.” He smirked. “Queen and Country and all that.”

I smiled. Neither of us truly meant that. “Yes. Yes of course.”

“What about books? Do you read anything interesting?”

“As a detective? I do not read all that much, I have read a Study in Scarlet, by Arthur Conan-Doyle, recently. I met the man and he gave me the honour of reading the introduction to his character, Sherlock Holmes. He is an excellent author, though a little raw. However I must say, I respect his methods.” He ran his teeth along his lips.

“Of course. Do you get much time away from the station? What do you do?”

“I make friends with undesirables. There is a man named Mordicai. I presume it is not his own if you understanding me.”

I smiled at that. “A nom de plume?”

“Yes, you could say that. I could tell you more, but in our current establishment, we don't know who may be eavesdropping, mon petit cheo-fleur.”

“Why, do you have somewhere you want to be?” I asked lightly. “Other than here?”

“My home is near by, I have a room, we can discuss things more privately.” It was that look again, like he's a predator. I fall quiet.

“Come, Friend. Finish your drink.”

We walked slowly. “So you must have a hobby, something to pass the time.” He looks at me for a moment and shakes his head. A small smile on his lips as he tugs out something small from his pocket. It's a little wooden swan.




“It's good to pass the time when you're waiting for something to happen.” He replies.

“Anything else?” I asked, stopping at the door, letting him open it and allow me entry.

He stopped just inside the boundary causing me to almost collide into him.

He turned and leaned in close to me.



















We continued our interview in his room, I shall continue the letter in our next corrispondance, you wished for how I felt about him, his character, more than what he said. He is a capable man, devoted to two things only, other than courting people inappropriately. His work as a detective, and his work for you. He is well placed to receive orders.

Mother, I shall continue to send any messages I receive from him to you. I do not know of their relevance, nor do I wish to, it is none of my concern. If you require my other service, I am at your command.

May the empire grow.

Ember Fay"

I do not understand why.
I pull my knees to my chest.
I do not know who I am anymore.
I cry again.

Who am I? 

Where am I?

I stare at my post for a little while.
I try and get onto news websites again.
BBC, CNN, USA Today, New York Times.
I get the same result as ever.

September 12th 2001, articles about how The Americas were ruined.
I feel disheartened.
I stand up.
I look around.

I look out of the window.
I look away from the light.
I find it too bright outside.
I look at the clock.

I sit down.
I look at the blog again.
I have an email.
I have no one to email.

I read it.
It says "Go to the door."
I go to the door.
I rest my hand on the knob.

I feel it's cool metal on my skin.
I tighten my grip. 
I open the door.
I feel a breeze on my face. 

I try step outside. 
I see a hedge, 
I feel grass under my feet. 
I see streets 

I am in some kind of suburbs.

I walk toward the old metal gate.
I can climb it.
I do climb it.
I almost go over the top.

I can't do it.
I fall back.
I scream.
I cry.
I yell. 

I am not heard.

I am alone.

I am hungry again.
I make myself another omelette. 
I eat.
I look at the clock.

I lie in bed.

I remember, tomorrow will be the same as always.

I don't question it. 

I fall asleep. 

Who am I?

It is as if I have been sleeping for years upon years upon years. 

I awake in an unfamiliar bed.

I look in the mirror and don't recognize myself. 

Every single bone in my body aches.

I start asking myself questions. 

Where am I? I don't know.

What am I doing here? I don't know that either.

Do I have a family? I don't know at all.

When is my birthday? I can't remember.

Who am I? And staring right back at me, I read a note taped to the door. 

  

It says "Ember Fay."

It says "Tell me who you are."

I go down stairs. I look around.

I see eggs, another note. "Omelette."

I recognize that, I know how to make an Omelette. 

I see tin of something.

I see a note on it, that says "Coffee."

I can make coffee.

I eat.

I drink. 

I explore some more.

I see a door with a note on it that says "Do not open." 

I do anyway. 

I see a computer. 

I see a note that gives an address and a password.

I log in.

I see this blog. 

I see a previous post.

It says "Tell me who you are." 

Music playing makes me jump.

Johnny Cash.

I enjoy it.

I look, 

I write, 

I ask "Who am I?" 

I doubt if I will get an answer. 

I can't press "publish."

I can never press "publish."

I stand up. 

I look around. 

I see a note.

It says "Press publish."

I sit back down.

I stare at the screen.

I hope I don't make a mistake.

I press publish.