The impression of the key was clear in the slab of soap. The morning was spent filing scrap metal to match the impression until I could slip the key seamlessly into the original shape. It was more time-consuming than melting down and filling a mold, but soap was the best thing I could use for the impression in a pinch.
As I approached our block, a figure in black—obvious mourning attire—hurriedly came down the steps of the town house. As I neared our home, I could see that it wasn’t a visitor who wished to stay.
A plain box was placed in front of our door. I looked down the street in the direction the woman went; she was already gone. Turned a corner, swept away by a crowd, however of the many ways to get lost in Manhattan.
“I suppose you’re a special delivery, then,” I muttered to myself as I gathered the box.
The house was empty when I opened the door. Glancing at my timepiece on my wrist, it read ten o’clock. Petronille usually didn’t wake until about this time. But today, I found she wasn’t even in the house.
I placed the box on the dining room table, tossing my keys next to it and my coat over the back of a chair. The box was dusty, much like the things she had collected from her sister’s donations. The cardboardhad small stains in the top corners, and not much on the outside indicating the contents.
I slipped the top off, glancing inside. Photographs bent out of shape, receipts, papers with dog-eared corners and wrinkles.
How boring.
I picked up one of the photos; it seemed to be of the family, taken someplace warm. When I shifted the papers, a white blur startled me. Several moths puttered out of the dense memorabilia, crawling quickly as the wings slapped, tumbling across the surface. I swore there were more and more of them every time I blinked. I would have to place more traps.
When I lifted another photograph, it seemed to be just the siblings. A candid. Two brunettes crouched on the ground, looking at something in the dirt. A small blond girl was next to them, yet even standing, she wasn’t taller than the others. She was dressed differently, I suppose in a hand-me-down. Clothes aside, there seemed to be an invisible wall, a disconnect, between the brunettes and the pale-haired child. It was hard to see all the finer details from the photograph.
There was another; this time I knew Petre instantly. The faded blond with two beauty marks next to her lip. She was with five others, all posed nicely in their tulle skirts and silk shoes. It was adorable how stern they all looked, like professionals, despite being lanky and small.
The last photo was one I couldn’t part with. It was a portrait, cropped to a simple bust, professionally done. I suppose this would be her eighteenth birthday, according to the date. Her dress was simple and handmade. Her hair was curled and styled with moonflowers. Her gaze, even her smile, was lighter. I didn’t believe I’d seen her like that before. So at peace, so hopeful.
I tucked the photo in my pocket, hesitant to hide away the image like a secret, like it was something I wasn’t supposed to see. A sacred illusion that I didn’t want to forget.
Under the photographs were folders, all varying in fullness.
I plucked one from the box, letting the cover flap open.
Coronary Report.
On the lines following were rather mundane, technical details. A name, date of birth, place of death. Occupation, farmer. Something about the notes poked at my subconscious, screaming at me to look. Nothing good would come from recognizing anything within a dead man’s file.
Cause of death: Unknown.
Observation: Enlarged kidneys.
Within some of the folders were photographs. The first one, a few white-coated individuals standing in front of some shack, vast fields in the horizon. They were shaking hands with farmers, tanned and dusty from working out in the open.
The next one was just a woman, sitting. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. She was pretty, so perhaps I was associating her with some celebrity.
Flipping to the next photograph, it was darker, indoors. There were people in white coats and bandannas, white cloth masks over their faces and rubber gloves up to their elbows, all hunched over a table. There wasn’t much to see, as the grain obscured most details from poor lighting.
Then, the woman again. But now I recognized her.
The last photograph, she had half her head shaved, metal pieces holding a long scar together, one eye concave and stitched shut.
I placed my hand over the butchered half of her face. But the next paper confirmed my suspicions.
I’d seen her before.
The last photograph, a small one clipped to the report: her cadaver scorched in all the places they’d disfigured her while she was still alive ... almost half of her entire body, from what I could see. An experiment gone wrong, and they didn’t have enough of a soul to admit it.
Used, then discarded. Like an animal.
I squinted down at some small text. A few words were repeating, familiar as of late.
I held the file in one hand, moving quickly near the door to gather an old, crumpled newspaper.
