{the immoral truth}-may 2020 big short-film project

 The Date is March 10th, 1932. Our story takes place in the Quiet suburbs of New York City where Lucille Mayfield is reading her birdwatching handbook. It is still early morning and her mind eases into the day as the sun shines tenderly. Lucille is the daughter of a neglectful businessman. Her mother, who she was coincidentally named after, died from a sudden illness in 1925. Lucille has secretly convinced herself that her dear Mother’s death was no coincidence and she held a long list of suspicions in the depths of her mind. At her young age, Lucille possesses the mentality of a middle-aged adult, being she’s been raising herself and her sister, it’s more challenging than it looks, if only she knew the many discoveries to come. 

Lucille’s Younger sister Annabelle plays a game of cards by herself on the front porch, she’s was a smart girl like her sister being only a year apart they relied on each other. Annabelle made the life-altering choice to stop talking after the death of her mother. She communicates through nodding and shaking her head, but you would find it very difficult to know a single thing about her other than simple questioning. Annabelle decides she could use a partner to play with so she gives one more look towards the sky and goes inside and up the long staircase. “ Have we gotten a letter from Dr. Mayfield yet?” asks Lucille, Annabelle shakes her head from left to right. The Mayfield girls spent their days educating and caring for themselves. They obsessively check the mailboxes every morning, hoping their father was thinking of them too. Lucille sighs. “It’s as if he forgot he ever had children” Annabelle agrees through the roll of her eyes. The girls play a game of war and put on a record to settle the average day ambiance. Lucille previously wrote a letter with detailed questions to her father last week. She’s never satisfied with the knowledge she already has, some would consider it her “deadly flaw”.

Dear, Dr. Mayfield

I write to you in regards to the questions Annabelle and I have, We need money to move to California. We understand it is essentially across the country but we believe we should not live here anymore. I plan to pursue the art of birdwatching and I am not sure about Annabelle but I know she desires a change. First question, Where do you store your finances in this house? We would like to organize a travel fund. Secondly, Can we have your permission to keep at least a few photographs of our Mother? We know you have copies of your own and we still miss her tenderly. And last question, Why don’t you answer our telephone calls? Dr. Mayfield, if I’m perfectly honest with you, you are a terribly negligent parent to us. However, we will continue to call you consistently. 

I hope you can accept our requests. 

Sincerely, 

Lucille  Maurine Mayfield

The Mayfield girls had a plan. They formed this plan weeks ago one day when the park one cloudy afternoon.“Do you think we burden Dr. Mayfield?” Lucille asked. Annabelle shrugged in return.“He is our father, after all, sometimes I think our relationship may be uncommon,” Lucille said as if she could hear her sister respond to her. At that moment Annabelle set down her umbrella and looked up with her twinkly sad eyes. She’s the spitting image of her deceased mother. A wave of sadness washed over her, like a blanket of misery.“Annabelle, please answer me honestly, do you ever think Mother’s death was strange?” Lucille swallowed, unsure how her muted sister would react. Annabelle closed her eyes momentarily and turned back to Lucille, She nodded. Being how wealthy the family was, the horrors that the Great Depression did to the economy completely unharmed them. The Mayfield girls felt privileged. They decided to take their father’s money to run away to California, not necessarily run away but testing to see if their father would show any care at all with their request to do so. They only wanted a higher sense of freedom but, most importantly, an answer they could believe for once. There in California they would come in contact with a private detective and start an investigation regarding their Mother. There in California, they would be far enough from the New York grasp and off their father’s radar. The Mayfield girls seem to share the idea that they were the only 2 responsible for the justice of their Mother.

The Date is March 12th, 1932. The Mayfield girls sit across from each other at the long extravagant dinner table. Lucille pours herself a cup of tea while Annabelle plays with the little grey kitten. They named prince. He belongs to the crowded New York Allies but he's especially friendly to the Mayfield girls. Annabelle stops drinking, as usual, she goes out to check the mailbox, not expecting much. She’s immediately surprised by a letter addressed to the Mayfield Household. She smiles and darts inside, to read the letter alongside her sister.  It was almost as if he was eager for them to leave.

           Dear Lucille and Annabelle,

I apologize for not writing sooner, I’m afraid I have been very busy and my schedule does not allow me to answer your telephone calls. I feel it would be seen as quite careless of me to accept your request to move to California. But if you insist it would be best, you can move out by Wednesday of next month. This is a great responsibility and I can only hope you manage it. If you can trust yourself to move and purchase California Real estate, I shall trust you too. I keep my funds inside the big suitcase, under the bed in the downstairs guest room, the money should cover all costs, however, you may not open the cigar box, it has personal treasures of mine that you don’t have my permission to even touch. I will try my best to answer your telephone calls from now on. 

Happy Travels

Sincerely, 

Dr. John William Mayfield

London Businessman

 

                 

Annabelle giggles at the sight of Lucile playfully crumbling up the letter and tossing it behind her. They have little sympathy for their father. He abandoned them, for “work purposes” apparently. They stride into the downstairs guest bedroom, kneel and drag the suitcase out from under the bed. Lucille confidently opens the case and squeals at the stacks of green paper she sees. They begin counting the money enthusiastically. Lucille stops when she sees the cigar box, she carefully carries her finger around the edges. Annabelle stops and looks. They glance at each other mischievously... Annabelle nods her approval. Lucille opens the cigar box. Suddenly a smell of their Mother’s perfume whirls around the room but the longer they inhale, the sooner they realize that ever so dreadful purple smell that they both choose to ignore.  They see visions of the violet and the powdery smell that caresses them. Such a divine feminine spirit. In a trance, they gently dump the contents of the cigar box onto the bed. struck by nostalgia they lay down. Their mother’s pair of silky white gloves stained ever so carefully with purplish clear residue and her elegant pearl necklace. Her luxurious earrings, and patterned handkerchief. Lucille delicately puts the gloves on, then Annabelle picks up the handkerchief to rub against her face. She felt as though she was in the presence of her dead mother again. The way she softly caressed her cheeks, kissing her daughters goodbye, each time before she left. She wore the white gloves to fancy dress balls. The girls were never to go because the balls were for adults only. But their mother would always describe every detail when she came back home. How pleased everyone was just to see her. All the men stared at her flowing long dresses, decorating her soft, petite figure. Now, she is gone. she’s gone somewhere we couldn't imagine.

Their Father is now a dark and distant person. It is such a mystery to anyone unfamiliar with him.” Such a tragedy” people would say when they saw the Mayfield girls. At the ceremony, the girls stood side by side, much younger and much more grieved. They looked like two dolls, their skin so light, still in shock perhaps in contrast to their dark funeral clothes, those youthful pink cheeks, and blue weepy eyes, so clear yet so faded and detached. 

Annabelle swallows deeply. She feels like she’s been caught by dozens of adults at once. She feels it’s wrong. She tugged her sister's arm anxiously. “What?” Lucille asks impatiently. Annabelle shook her head back and forth showing her disagreement. Her hands caressed a sage-green leather book. They both recognized it. It was like a forbidden treasure. If they read it would be like she was there again, telling them a fairy tale. But Annabelle knows it is a breach of privacy. She’s a respectful girl. But Lucille’s stubborn. “Nobody can stop us, Annabelle,” Lucille says, rolling her eyes. “Don’t we have the right to see what once belonged to her?” Annabelle twists her face in fear and runs out of the bedroom. Lucille snickers and opens the diary to the first page her finger rests in between

January 14th 1920

Tonight John left for Yorkshire. John promised one last business trip before the baby is born. I spent the day telling stories to Lucille, when she’s calm enough she lets me braid her hair, so thick like her father’s. I hardly remember the last time it was like before I had children. Lucille is like a new life. She’s given me so much and I don’t know if she will ever understand how grateful I am. I’m so enthusiastic to see her grow up. It just started snowing, how beautiful it is. 

-Lucille Bethany Mayfield

Lucille shuts the diary, a tear trickling down her cheek. The energy is forceful and heavy. Lucille numbly gathers the book and puts it back in the box. Lucille’s devastated her mother would never get to see her grow up, it sounded like it was the ultimate wish of a parent to just see their child flourish into adulthood. They never consider if they died first. 

When night comes, Annabelle stoically stares at her bedroom ceiling. She detaches her mind from her body and rests in a state of tranquillity. The routine of a successful night. She soon transfers into a surreal state. A dark room in a British manor. 

Sitting high above the sleep full village. 

The darkness ceased to a creamy orb and soon enough I knew it was her.

I expected to be shocked but all I felt was ease. 

I watched as two figures danced. 

Decorated in their polished party clothes

When she spun, you could mistake her for a pale star

The one that catches your eye first and keeps it forever

The man with her illuminated from the light she projected

She was everywhere in the room.

From the music to the sweetness that filled the air

I felt like this moment couldn’t end

Eventually, the dancers seized to a gloomy stop

Their silhouettes blew away and faded into the darkness

I was consumed by gentle nightfall

And I let myself be inside it.

“Why don’t you let them hear those pretty words of yours?”

She asked me. I wanted to argue.

I really couldn’t. “What if my words are ugly?” 

I asked defensively. 

She spoke for me but the words came from an empty hole in my head

“Any words from you would be pretty words” 

Soon I’m halted into visions of purple and crimson and feelings of pain come to me. 

I long deeply to speak, but years of misunderstandings clogged my throat 

And choked me to death

But, she was right. 

Her advice was the kind I must take 

The date is March 13th; 1932, 

Annabelle wrote her dream on cardstock, her handwriting messier than usual, being she wrote as soon as she was conscious enough to hold a pen. She considers Lucille her only “pen pall” being she voices her opinions with silent words on paper. She still was always close enough to hear her shout the truth. Annabelle reads her work as soon as she finishes. She squeaks in frustration when she realizes the writing is simply too hard to read. 

The girls walked side by side to the bank that morning. They took the bus down to the center of the town. They needed to cash in the money to the bank. Like two adults they venture into the city. You could spot a rich girl down the street miles away in New York after the ruins of the Great Depression-like gold in a cavern of coal. Lucille loves the attention. She smirks at the desperate looks on the faces of the starving people on the street. Annabelle, however, cringes and shields her eyes with her book, avoiding the overpowering guilt she faces. Once the money is turned in, the girls sit in the park reading. They look at each other curiously, they trade their books. 

Annabelle reads her sister’s book;

      Alone

From Childhood’s Hour, I have not been

As others were I have not seen

As others, saw-I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source, I have not taken

My sorrow I could not awaken 

My heart to joy at the same tone

And all I loved- I loved alone. 

• Edgar Alan Poe

Lucille read her sister’s book; 

I HAD NO TIME TO HATE

I had no time hate because 

The grave would hinder me,

And life was not so ample. 

I could not end the enmity.

Nor had I had time to love,

 but since Some industry must be,

 The little toil of love, 

I thought, was large enough for me. 

• Emily Dickinson

They both had Jurassic in different taste’s book. Disgusted, both of them trade back their books. 

The Date is March 16th, 1930.

Both of them buy tickets to a plane ride next month. They want to leave as soon as possible, but later Annabelle sat to ponder. How could their father allow them to take a long trip by themselves, in a plane full of strangers? In a town with even more. How Irresponsible of him, she thinks. This infuriates her. She was amazed how long their father had not cared about them. He would never truly realize the girls had lied to him, and He only would care until the people knew of how he treated his children, they would frown and scoff at him as he walked by, talking rudely about him behind his back. Then he would know regret. Annabelle knew this but now she realized how awful it felt.  The girls spent the rest of their day in touch with a special nobody that had quite the reputation for solving the most mysterious of cases. Charles O’conner or as some referred to him as the boy with triangle eyes. He had an awkward look about him and as suggested, 2 brown little triangles under his eyes. He was the nephew of the great Edward O'Connor the owner of The Brink Hotel, probably the most famous hotel in all of Manhattan. 

He arranged a meeting with the girls at the Fraunces Tavern. March 17th  The sisters looked forward to the meeting. At least, Lucille thought so...

The next day, Annabelle draws a bath for herself. She turns the knobs to a warm temperature and shuts the door. The room is illuminated by the early glow of the morning light and an eerie silence. She holds a book of sad stories.

 I know by this time tomorrow the world will have one less soul to burden. 

Just one among the billions that they unsympathetically forgot about. She wipes her sad eyes and steps into the filled bathtub, still fully dressed she holds the diary with her. She turns to the incomplete pages and begins writing. She has once flawlessly done eye makeup drips and flows with the momentum of her tears. She finishes writing and holds the diary tightly to her chest. She leaves the book carefully by the bathtub and sinks into the water. 

I dunk my head in gently and allow myself to become one with words I wish I could scream. The words that push harder every day of my life and leave dark and painful bruises that seem impossible to ever heal. 

Lucille puts on a record and opens the windows to welcome such a lovely morning. She plans to read her mother’s diary once again. Maybe this time she can spot some hidden clues. But it’s not in the suitcase the girls opened. Puzzled,  Lucile scavenges the house for the diary. She knows her sister is not fond of the diary so she doesn’t expect her to have it. Frustrated, Lucille climbs up the stairs looking to speak to her sister, when the record stops. She scoffs and turns away, back down the stairs to change it out. 

 I feel as my lungs become desperate for air, I wonder how much time has passed since I left her head in.

 She sees darkness cloud the edges of her vision and her chest pump in an effort to feel precious oxygen again. Her body is panicked but her soul, the most relaxed it had ever been in her life. Lucille comes back up the stairs when she suddenly realizes where the diary is. Her eyes widen when reality hits her. She knows something is horribly wrong. Annabelle seems perfectly fine with being independent but truly, her worst fear is being alone. She sprints urgently to the upstairs bathing room. The world seems to slow and at a hypnotic and sickening pace. 

A note lay there on the bathroom tile beside the tub. In inky writing, it reads 

The Chariot 

Because I could not stop for death. 

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality

We slowly drove, He knew no haste, And I had put away, My labor and my leisure too, For his civility. 

We passed the school where children played, Their lessons are scarcely done, 

We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. 

We paused before a house that seemed like swelling of the ground. The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. 

Since then ‘tis centuries, but each feels shorter than the day 

I first surmised the horse’s heads were toward eternity.

• Emily Dickinson

The ink smears as Lucille splashes desperately trying to pull her sister out. Her lips are blue, and her face is whiter than the coldest snow. “How selfish of you!” Lucille sobs. Annabelle’s eyes are delicately shut and her limbs are peacefully limp. Lucille shakes her by the shoulders ``Annie please, please don't leave me by myself!” Lucille believes her sister is practically dead. She envisioned waking up in an empty house, haunted by the spirits of her lost family. She would be helpless without her sister alongside her, at every moment. She was the only one that understood her, at least beside every secret she hides. “Please make it stop, mother, please.” Lucille cried hopelessly then sighs and leans her head on the only girl that ever knew her. She hugs her tightly, still crying, when suddenly Annabelle breaks the silence, coughing. Lucille stares awestruck. Annabelle’s color slowly comes back to her. Shocked when she realizes her reality is still in action. Lucille slaps her sister. And shakes her angrily. “How could you do that to me!” Annabelle, still numb with shock, believed she was dead minutes ago. “You're all I have! the only thing that keeps me earthbound!” Lucille screams. Still shocked, Annabelle hands the wet letter to her sister. Shocked, she reads the poem. “Nonsense!” Lucille grabs the paper fiercely, ready to rip it into shreds. When she sees the back. And stops. 

I know everything. I know why she has died, the real reason. I am deeply sorry to leave with this secret. God forgive me for being so weak. 

The girls look at each other. Noticing once again how similar they look to the woman they’ve wanted so badly to see again. The truth is never too far out of reach. The courage is up to one person. Fate is in their hands. Annabelle holds clumps of guilt that get heavier by the minute. Her body is sore as such a small girl carries such a large burden. It was only a matter of time before the weight would crush her. With only a towel around her, they walked downtown to catch a train to the Fraunces Tavern. Lucille pulls along her sister like an anxious dog on a lead. Annabelle pictured herself wondering the milky way as another star in the galaxy great beyond, but now she will be forced to speak the truth. If not her sister would squeeze it out. 

The train ride is awkward. They both do their best to tame their emotions. Annabelle expected to be scared but she’s under a long depressive spell. 

They spot Mr. O'connor standing. He wears a clean day suit, and noticeably the triangular tear shapes down his eyes.“Good day, Mr. O'connor” Lucille confidently says, sticking her hand out. “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Mayfield and please call me Charles.” as they shake hands, Lucille is flattered being called “Mrs”. It makes her feel as honorable as her mother once was. Charles turns his attention to Annabelle, who pouts and stares firmly at the ground. Her hair is still wet, and she still shivers under the towel. “This is my younger sister, Annabelle, excuse her, she's not well presentable,”  says Lucille rather embarrassed.  “Oh, You’re excused, nice to meet you, Annabelle,” says Charles as he shyly pokes his hand towards her. Annabelle rolls her eyes. Lucille, still embarrassed, pinches her sister and quietly scolds her. “Annabelle, don’t be so rude, shake his hand.” and laughs uncomfortably.  Annabelle scoffs and shakes Charles’s hand limply. “Goodness.” Lucille laughs, dismissing the angry energy her sister radiates. “Shall we take a seat?” The kids seat themselves at a booth. Annabelle shuddered as the cool early spring breeze ran around her dampened clothes. “So Charles, how long have you been a private investigator?” Lucille asks. Charles laughs. “Well damn, I’ve never thought of myself as such. I’ve only been in crime for a year or so.” Annabelle childishly slouches and lays her head on the table, watching a pigeon outside the window, pecking around a dirty dish, looking for something good to bring to her nest. How wonderful it is that nature creates such loving and maternal creatures, no matter how big or small. “I would consider that investigation, looking for the details most people never consider even exist,” Lucille says, she’s so clever, Annabelle doesn’t even have to turn her head to see a foolish Charles fall helplessly into Lucille’s perfect charm. Charles blushes and looks down his lap. The waitress comes with glasses of water for the three of them. Lucille doesn’t break eye contact as she talks to Charles. “I bet our case is nothing but a joke to you, we’re not smart enough to know any idea.” Annabelle looks closely at the ice in her cup, enjoying the diaphanous beauty of it. How lovely it would be if people had ice faces, how their thoughts would never be secret, but every feeling would be crystal clear. Fascinated, Annabelle fixes her towel and sticks her straw into the water, blowing out her prideful bubbles, not minding her surroundings, not even a little bit!. Living life without minding pointless interruptions. “Well, I’m flattered, Mrs. Mayfield but I must ask you something regarding your mother’s- “Excuse me, Charles, I need to have a word with my sister.” Lucille interrupts, turning towards Annabelle angrily. She grabs her by the arm and pulls her out of the booth. Annabelle mindlessly allows it. “What is the matter with you!?” Lucille whispers angrily. Annabelle ponders for a second, didn’t she have the right to lose all patience? She forgot how to care, to mind her table manners, and to think maturely. She didn’t think she would be standing in a busy new york restaurant breathing air over and over again like a lonely old windmill. Lucille Sighs “pull yourself together.” almost more gentle this time. The girls seat themselves again. “I was needing to confirm your mother died on the 12th of April, 1925?” Charles asks.“Yes, that may be confirmed.” She answers. Annabelle still slouches but she looks closely at Charles as he speaks and then back at her sister when she responds.“And she died from a sudden illness, that lasted only 4 days before her untimely death?” before Lucille can respond. Annabelle opens her mouth “No. She was poisoned.” Annabelle immediately puts her hands over her lips. Shocked and unsure whether she should be proud or regretful. Lucille stares at the girl beside her. The dark, dampened hair and tearful blue eyes. It was as if it was just the two of them. Lucille and Annabelle. The two sisters were so close but so distant. Annabelle was 10 years old watching her mother Annabelle allow herself to breathe again. “Because she told the truth, they blackmailed her and she finally told the truth.” Lucille’s hands tremble as she scopes her face to find her mouth and hold it with both hands. Charles just stares struck dumb. Annabelle listens to herself speak, in wonder that it is truly her voice. So sweet and honest. “She promised me that what she was doing was right. Saying the truth out loud, no matter what.” Lucille feels uncontrollable anger. She’s been betrayed, the years she has spent wondering, bargaining, and scraping her mind with endless possibilities, and not once did she imagine her own sister would know all along. “Why haven’t you said anything!” she screams, grabbing her sister by the shoulders, hot tears beginning to drip down her neck. “How dare you play me like a fool! Why?! out of all people I would expect you to trust me.” Annabelle watches her sister's face redden in eternal pain. She forms her lips to say sorry but her voice fails to sound itself. “Are you really sorry?!” Lucille screams, dismissing the stars they are beginning to get from the other people at the restaurant. Charles nervously rubs his neck and sensitively begins taking notes. Annabelle is truly sorry. Stares sadly into her sister’s eyes. Even as she cried she was beautiful. Those emerald eyes coated in a clear layer of delicate water. “ I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified, so terrified.'' They hold each other’s arms, crying. The restaurant has gone quiet. Some people stare at them while others ignore the fuss. “I’m the only one you could have trusted but instead you attempted to kill yourself with the truth untold.” Annabelle swallows her words again, another sorry won’t make anything better. Deep regret fills the air. They let go of each other’s arms and sit quietly staring at their laps in shame. 

March 8th, 1925

I met the most peculiar lady outside the bank tonight. John tells me to ignore them but I just couldn’t resist. She sat beside a small child, whom she said was her niece. They had dirty faces and the saddest eyes. She sat in front of a deck of yellowing cards and she asked if I’d like my future read for a dime. I followed my stupid old heart and gave in. She seemed grateful, so I felt quite prideful. She and I shuffled the strange-looking cards and I couldn’t help but smile as her eyes brightened with hope. She spread the cards facing down and told me to pick one that I felt should be shown to me. I closed my eyes and chose one that just felt right to me and opened my eyes to see the most daunting card in my hand. It was a skeleton man holding a glowing green lantern. He wore a long black robe with a hood covering most of his skull. A chill ran down my spine when I saw it read “ death”. The woman seemed unsettled too, she told me not to worry too much, that It probably only meant to expect a big change of sorts. I pretended that I understood but I only felt like crying. What would be the big change in my life? Death can only mean one thing. I gave her a dime and she kissed my cheek and off I went. If I tell John, he’ll only scold me for being so stupid, So all I can tell is to just you, diary.

Lucille’s hands intensely hold the sides of the diary. She wondered how long her untamable fury would last as the hot tears came. The sun was now setting, like it always has. Putting all hell to rest but little do they know, all hell can carry on as normal in the dark. Annabelle would be sleeping on the sofa, downstairs because she already understood, Lucille would rather not see her face, not after she hurt her so badly. The sisters would get into quarrels but never was it about a long-hidden secret. Annabelle walks like a corpse. Her face seems drained of all hope. Reasonably, the girls take hours to fall asleep. All they could think of was dreadful. 

June 12th’ 1924

Diary, 

Everything seems to be un-real. I just do my best to be a good mother to the girls but all I can think of is that card. It’s such stress keeping it to myself. Today John came home and told me he was in great trouble. He made a deal with a Spanish businessman, of a loan he promised to pay but since the depression has started, money has been nothing but a burden. I can only lay in bed and wonder if one day it will be us upon streets, with an upside-down hat, begging for a single dime. How dreadful it must be. How dreadful it is. 

The Date is March 19th, 1932, mourning each other's losses. Annabelle feels horrible for what she has done, but she believes her fear excuses her from ever speaking. How could you speak after your own mother was killed for doing that exact thing? Speaking. Opening a closet full of skeletons, you never even realized where they were. Lucille spends the long hours of each day documenting the findings from the diary and forming ideas of any shred of what may have happened. But they all know now that it was never an accident. She steps back to admire her work and begins to smile, then it fades when she begins to fear if the killer has ever considered killing her. She, of course, inherited her mother’s name. What if when she finds out the truth, they take her life. If they did it once, certainly they have enough evil to do it twice. Lucille imagines a tall skinny man dressed in black climbing up the house and throwing the window, to slit her throat while she sleeps in the night. As the sun comes down, The girls lay down in their appropriate places, both of them exhausted but still restless. Annabelle can only shut her eyes for a few moments until she wakes to uphold her chest and breathe hysterically. She gets up and sits down at the desk

Dear, Lucille

I understand why you're crossed with me. 

I would be angry too. I apologize deeply. You must feel betrayed, But I assure you, you’re not. For years now, I’ve only lived in fear. I’m in fear of uncovering the past. I’m in fear of what people will think. I’m in fear of hurting those I love. I’m in fear of losing you. My sister and my only friend. I want mother to rest in peace and I often wonder

Annabelle’s hand begins to shake, while she feels the endless cycle of pain begin once again. She wipes her tears on her sleeve and continues. 

I often wonder if her spirit loathes me for staying quiet for so long. She may already hate me, But my worst fear is you hating me too. Only in my worst nightmare could I imagine us apart. Please consider what I feel. 

Good Night, 

Annabelle Mayfield

Annabelle finishes and lights a candle to guide herself down the long staircase. She ignores the growing anticipation of scary ghosts hiding among the shadows. She finds Lucille’s room by the glow around the doorframe. She kneels down and tucks the letter under the door. Lucille looks up from her book. She’s done her best to wind herself to slumber but she too is anxious, she puts her book down and steps over to the doorway, she knows It's Annabelle on the other side. She can sense her sweet innocence from miles away. Lucille bends over to pick up the letter and begins reading. Annabelle soon slowly begins turning to make her way back up the eerie stairway before she feels arms around her. It was Lucille hugging Annabelle tightly. “I could never hate you.” The Sisters hold each other and weep, with the candle still flickering in front of them. 

The girls make up and sleep together on the fluffy carpet of the stupidly big living room. Although it’s big enough to hear echoes in your voice, it still has a full and warm atmosphere. They used to have parties there back in the day before their lives went array. Lucille falls asleep easily but once Annabelle meets the nightfall rest she’s confronted by the sinking feeling of dread. Suddenly she’s in the bathtub again, watching bubbles leave her nose and travel up to the brim of the water. Her lungs ache as she gets deeper and deeper into the pits of endless sorrow. She wants to scream, to kick her way back to life but she’s paralyzed by strong dedication. Her bubbles eventually stop and she sinks deeper into a dark, indigo abyss. She’s no longer panicking but she never wanted to die. She just wanted to find peace at last.

SHE 

NEVER 

WANTED 

TO DIE.

The next morning, March 20th, 1932, the girls woke up early to beat the subway traffic. Lucille the numbers of her father’s business office. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Mayfield.” She says confidently into the phone. Annabelle stands nervously behind her. She had dreams the night before. She’s still not even sure if it’s over yet. The phone booth floor is sticky from spilled drinks and other nasty syrups probably from someone else’s wild night. It smells like mildew and the longer she stands there the faster her heartbeat quickens. “Yes please,” Lucille responds to the other end of the call. After a few seconds, Lucille is as close as she’s been to her father she’s been in almost 5 years. “Hello?” she asks suddenly shyly. “Lucy?” a man’s voice asks. 

“Yes, Yes This is her,” she answers. Annabelle steps in closer to hear what her sister is hearing. 

“Hello...how have you been my dear?” The girls notice how he sounds soft, almost guilt-stricken.

‘I’ve-been alright. How about you?” She does her best to sound sophisticated. Maybe he would feel sorry for missing her and growing up so nicely. “I’ve been alright as well...terribly busy as you may know.” the girls exchange faces of annoyance. “Well then, we thought we’d let you know, we’re leaving tomorrow morning, our bags are already packed and everything,” Lucille says. “Oh, that’s right. How has Annie been? Has she still been quiet as a mouse?” 

“You could say so, yes,” Lucille says, looking at her sister for assurance. “Ahhh that girl.”  He responds with, followed by an awkward chuckle. There comes the dreadful moment of silence. 

“I’ll also have you know...we know everything and you may never call us again and if you do-” Annabelle watches, her anxiety heightening at the second. Resentment fills Lucille’s eyes and she speaks to the phone. “If you do, I’ll ignore each one. You won’t ever know where we reside and I doubt you would truly care anyways...go ahead be a busy man all day and night but your family seems to be worthless to you- the only mistake she ever made was loving you, I’m sure she’s ashamed of the mess you call a job of raising us. Consider us dead just as she is, that way you’ll never feel sorry for us ever” Before he could answer, Lucille, slammed the phone into the stand. Annabelle stands with her hands covering her mouth in shock. After another few moments of silence, they burst out in tearful laughter. Being the children they truly are, all they could do was laugh. 

The date is March 23rd, 1932, With their bags packed to the brim, the girls wander around their beloved house, reminiscing each happy day they spent within the walls. The girls visualize those happy voices and elegant music. The men are in suits and creamy bowties and the woman is wearing red lipstick and dresses dripping with lace at the ends. The chandelier glowed in contrast to the dark Saturday nights. Never would anyone go unimpressed. 

The Date is April 1st, 1932

The train ride is a blur of tears. The girls stare melancholically out the windows. They abandoned the house. They gave their cat Prince away to the little girl across the street. Annabelle assumed he liked her better anyways because she left a bowl of milk to feed the butterflies but instead attracted a kitten that belonged to someone else. Lucille can’t believe she’s leaving. The plan was set for months now, but she never planned to be devastated. The clouds crowded across the sky but still, it would not rain. It formed a dull image of the forest as they passed. The sky seemed to be distressed and condensed with anxious anticipation. 

They soon find themselves in a California hotel room, counting the money they have left on the floor. 

They have scuff marks on their white tights and their hair has become frizzy from the humidity. 

While Annabelle counts and organizes. Lucille began unpacking the bags. They plan to stay in the hotel for a few more weeks until they find a place, which is not expected to be easy in Los Angeles. But what could they expect, they went from one big city to another, across the country,  on a 9-hour train ride it was only exhausting. 

They soon found themselves in a hotel in some city of California. 

Lucille unruffles her clothes when Annabelle stands up and walks slowly to the window. The Sun was now setting, marking an end to their day of travels. The streets are filled with cars and people leaving or going to their jobs. Wherever they went, they all seemed to know exactly where and had no fear in their journey. A view from the 4th story of the hotel where they’re staying, you can see each edge of the buildings, much more modern than classy New York. Annabelle touches the window. It was cold but still much warmer than springtime in New York. how Bizarre, she thinks to herself. Only a few more minutes until surely the city would be blanketed with darkness. “Lucille?” Annabelle's quiet voice breaks the silence, without her even looking away from the window. Lucille immediately looks up, she still can’t get used to Annabelle talking again,  even though she’s been looking forward to her speaking. 

“Yes?” She asks again cautiously. 

Annabelle points down to a spot on the window. “Do you think they’re looking for us?” Lucille instinctively gets up and runs to the window. There, on the right side of the street,  seems to be a group of police officers, maybe 10 of them handing out flyers and talking to people on the street. They walk in an urgent fashion as if someone of importance needs our help. Dr. Mayfield is a man of importance and he certainly has enough influence to get enough people talking quickly. Anabelle grunts ``1 knew it was a bad idea to go off on him like that!” Annabelle exclaims in a now shaky voice. They both have a sinking feeling those cops are coming for them. “Now I bet he’s going to find us.” Lucille’s heart quickens. She does her best to be the boss she usually is. “No, I’m certain it’s not for us, we never told him precisely where in California we would be moving,” Lucille says, still examining the officers outside the window. Annabelle seems to panic more and more. She covers her eyes and squeals with concern. Lucille turns and looks at Annabelle. “It’s not for us, I can almost promise you.” The police scattered around, now it seemed to be about 20 of them all in one street, they passed along flyers. They looked like navy dots running around the city from the view where the window was. They all seemed to gather around somebody on the street. Lucille began laughing with relief. “See, there! It’s not for us.” Annabelle uncovers her eyes and begins laughing along with relief. Suddenly an assertive knock breaks the lightheartedness in the air. Annabelle gasps and darts to hide behind the bed. Lucille tenses and with fake courage in her voice asks “Who is it?” There's a scuffle behind the door and Lucille is left with her mind racing, an imaginary image of officers behind the door carrying nets and handcuffs. “Room Service” someone finally says behind the door. Lucille’s body relaxes and goes to open the door. There stands a small woman with tied-up hair,  a broom, and cleaning supplies. She walks in and begins doing her job of cleaning from the last hotel room’s tenant. Lucille remembers her sister hiding stupidly behind the bed and goes over to pull her up. Annabelle softens when she sees it’s just a janitor. They face the woman while she dusts behind a chair “what’s happening in town?” Lucille asks the janitor, she looks up and out the window. “Oh, my manager told me they’re looking for two girls from New York, apparently they are in danger too.” the woman said, while still dusting the corners. Soon the girls are laying on the now perfectly made bed, debating their options to handle their perfectly ruined lives. Annabelle bites her nails. Surely those flyers had their faces on it, their names, and a promise of a grand and expensive reward of money. It’s much safer at home in their lonely New York mansion, but they still could hardly bear the thought of missing it. Ugly secrets hide in the most Enchanting of places. “If we just stay in this room for maybe another month, we won’t have to worry about being seen by a soul,” Lucille said hopefully. Annabelle shakes her head, still with her fingers between her lips. She stared at the wall with a dull expression. “Think about it- I’m certain all of those hotel maids are desperate for that reward money. They still can easily find out we’re here.” Lucille stopped walking and stood to face Annabelle. She’s about to cry. You can see the muscles straining with the effort. “This is all my fault. Isn’t it?” Lucille says. She’s been getting good at taking more accountability but she’s still cruel to herself. Annabelle shakes her head, trying to be gentle. “I would’ve done the same thing.'' The girls compromise on dying their hair with bleach the next morning in order to disguise themselves from the public eye. The night is impatient. The girls turn back and forth under the sheets, their eyes still open, yet blinded by the California darkness. After midnight, their drowsiness gets the better of them and they begin falling under the seas of slumber. Suddenly, Lucille feels warm hands grab under her arms and tug gently at her nightgown. There’s a quick flash of light in her face and confusion sets in. She begins believing she’s only dreaming and is soon confronted by the cold sensation of metal against her legs. She abruptly opens her eyes to be met with a bright orb and a shiver down her spine.

 Lucille realized she was in an empty room,  just a single metal chair and a table with a bright lamp. Across the field of light seemed to be a large window, with figures standing on the other side. She’s greeted with a cold sensation circulating around her wrists, she turns around to realize she's in handcuffs. “Please state your name.” a male voice echoes in from the other side of the window. Lucille feels numb with surprise. She tries to convince herself she’s dreaming again. “Lucille Mayfield,” she says with a shocked expression. “Where am I?” she demands, the sass begins to kick in. “Where’s my sister?” she demands, beginning to fight against the structural restraint of the handcuffs. “She’s alright, she’s still asleep if that’s what you're wondering.” the male voice responds. Now, Lucille feels the panic set in. “Where am I?!” she shouts, the question was not answered at the beginning. Her heart accelerates when she realizes she’s absolutely helpless. “You’re in a safe place, Lucy, no need to be frantic.” the voice answers. Lucille stops in her place and stares closer at the glass mirror. “Nobody can call me Lucy unless they know me,” she says defensively. “What did you do with my sister? I want to see her now!” Lucille Imagines how scared her sister must be now, she would probably keep her mouth shut forever, she would probably want to ask the same questions. “I told you, she’s sleeping, she’s safe, you wouldn't want to wake her, would you?” the voice says, so calmly. Lucille ponders. She’d rather Annabelle sleep through all of this than be awoken with such agonizing fear. She softens her body and leans in closer towards the Lightforce. “Whatever you do, you dare not lay a single finger on her,” Lucille speaks in the most intimidating tone she can possibly muster. As she leans forwards she immediately notices the harsh smell coming from the floor. It appears sticky and flagrant with smears of purple residue. Then Lucille is suddenly thrown into a once forgotten trauma. The smell, the sight of that liquid. It was coated at the corners of her Mother’s lips as she laid in her bed...dying. Lucille's heart quickens even more. 

The smell clung to the walls of the mansion for months even after Her mother was a victim to her fate. It haunted the girls but they tried so desperately to ignore it. recalling the memory of their mother’s spit and sweat, tinted with...purple.  Purple is a color of luxury and wealth, they thought it would be best to take it in as a sense of pride to the vast privileges they had. But now it was only terrifying. Lucille only imagined the worst of scenarios.

“Why are we here?” She asks, how much less intimidating. The smell of the mysterious purple slime seems to get stronger.  “Don’t worry so much, Lucy, we only have some questions to ask you.” Lucille continues to panic and pulls against the restaurants. “Why did you lock me up?” she asks, she feels her forehead begin to sweat, her wrists ache against the tight  handcuffs ``We have to protect ourselves, don’t we?” The voice seems to be fake, almost like a recording of a video taken out of context and stitched into an ordinary-sounding sentence. Lucille had no idea who was behind the glass wall of light, she would never know Annabelle was not only asleep but poisoned, she had not yet noticed the venom oozing from her own lips, she had yet to understand how she had been carried from the hotel room to an underground organization meant specifically to target the wealthy businesses or political organizations, Dr. Mayfield happened to be a man of many secrets, He would never admit his cowardly deeds would put his own family in trouble and he dared not ever to speak about them and risk losing all of his precious money. 

The Vulnerability soon became of Lucille. She feels hot tears drip down her face. She's angry and scared and most of all dejected that she could not complete all the work she has done. All she really wants is to prove to herself she’s a worthy daughter to the woman she was named after and raised by. She wipes her face and looks to see a streak of purple fluid on her arm. This can only mean one thing to her. She slouches hopelessly in the chair and cries into her lap, with her arms still cuffed behind her back between the bars of the chair sits on., only to be comforted by the silence behind the other side of the harsh ray of light.

I lift my eyelids delicately, I’m greeted by the glow of early morning from the opening of windows, in a large empty room. I lay on a dusty mattress but I’m confronted with the feeling of dread when I notice I’m no longer in the hotel bed where she slept. My lips tighten with uncomfert when I notice I have a violent headache and then I smell it. The sardonic stench of the purple fluid, it’s smeared on the mattress and the floor alongside empty syringes sprawled across the floor. As I inspect myself I  notice it on her hands, my bare feet, and sprinkled on my nightgown. I stretch my arm to get a better look until I flinch at the pain from my veins,  I come to notice bruises and dried blood in the center of my arms. Somebody was injecting something inside of me. Breathing heavily, I get up and then collapse back down in exhaustion, I have hardly any energy to move. I lay there, lethargic and dizzy but I knew I couldn't just wait to be saved by Lucille, I must find her.

Lucille wipes her face again to notice her tears are as well tinted with purple. She could almost taste it, sickeningly sweet and repellent stuck to her tongue. “Do you know where you are?” the deep voice asks from the other side of the glass. “No, I have no clue” Lucille sobs hopelessly. “You’re underground in a bunker, with the most capable security, as long as you're handcuffed you could never escape.” Lucille nods along to her misfortune. She does not know that they are bluffing, they are only in an abandoned house far past the center of Los Angeles, they only want to discourage Lucille. These very same mysterious people poisoned her mother years ago with undetectable amounts of

 Razzle Window Cleaner. A solution with intense amounts of Iodine gives it the purple shade, A solution made to clean the unclean, designed to shine what was once stained with filth. They poured it in her drinks at the parties and little by little she suffered the effects until one night she died in her sleep.  

I do my best to crawl off the mattress and onto the floor, searching desperately for a window or door, whatever it is, I need the fresh air. The thumping of my heart is the only sound I can hear. Everything else seems to be meaningless echolalia. I move with my elbows as I crawl. not wanting to touch the purple goo splattered across the floor, but as I squirm around I’m intimate with the stench, making me dizzy over and over again. I push my exhaustion. Certainly, Lucille is somewhere around here. Finally, I find a closed-door with chipping paint and wrap my fingers around the handle.

Lucille presses for further answers ‘Do you want anything from me? She gulps down another round of tears “Is there anything I have that I can give to you?” she begs, still scraping her psyche for any bit of hope of breaking free. “We are only holding you captive by the request of John Mayfield.” Lucille’s face tightens once again with sadness, dropping her face into her lap. “My own father,” she mutters. The voice does not respond. Lucille wonders if they may feel sorry for her. John Mayfield has become the villain of the girls' lives. Lucille's legs shake ever so slightly as she begins questioning if she would die. They had every reason to kill her. She knew they had done it. The blood was on their hands and if Lucille had the freedom to stand up and leave the prisoner’s cell she would tell them, give every shard of information to the police department and once she laid hands on her father again, surely she would kill him. “Dr. Mayfield offered us a great deal of money to slowly kill his wife. She caught his company making horrible frauds and one night out of rage John Mayfield put a knife over the neck of Lucille, he told her if she dared say a word she would regret it.”Lucille’s tears came, she can’t control them. She’s a teapot with never-ending streams of sorrow. “Lucille promised she would keep the secret, but she began feeling guilty for all of those businesses dying out and getting squeezed dry by the men at the top. More and more families went bankrupt” Lucille fixated on those words. She imagined her tears must be purple too. 

I adjust my arms to crawl down a dark hallway. I want to keep as quiet as possible but as well I’d  like to scream for help. As I crawl, I notice myself fade in and out of reality but still I refuse to pass out again. The floor is cold and I hear faint talking in a room ahead of me. I fix myself, to sit and observe my surroundings. The hallway is illuminated by the windows from the room I just left. The house is cold and dusty. But the floors seemed to be worn in. People have been actively using this house, but they don't care enough to keep it clean and presentable. I look up to see several picture frames hanging on the walls, the photos look eerily sad. Each one is a portrait of a young adult. Some are obviously older than others and have an ominous gloom in their eyes. My head is spinning and swirling around. My thoughts and all I can do is steady myself down the hallway. Eventually, I crouch beside a door leading to the echoes of conversation behind it. 

Lucille bargains with the mysterious figures. “We can go back to New York, We can clean up and destroy all the evidence.” she pleads “I promise! If you would please just let us go, we just want our freedom.” Lucille pulls against the handcuffs trying to sound innocent and willing. “I promise!!” she screams this time. "Lucille Cordelia Mayfield- you are to sign a contract that you will forget every detail of our crimes and will not ever speak a word to any form of authority.” The voice speaks like a headmaster, strict and unforgiving. Lucille forgets to keep up the innocent facade. She leans over again, glaring at the window. “You….can’t…..make…..me…..do…..anything.”

I soon recognized one of the voices as my sisters. There was no other way to rationalize it. The two of us are kidnapped but we're a duo of great power. Surely, we would get out unharmed. Besides of course the purple spell I.m under, I believed. As I sit up to adjust myself, I feel a sudden tight grasp around my neck and seconds later a damp cloth across my mouth and nose. I want to scream and defend myself but I immediately fall under the aroma of the sickening appalling chloroform to a dizzy sleep. 

Lucille leans back in her seat, satisfied that she successfully intimidated her mysterious captors. “I’m not signing anything, '' she answered. By an empty imaginary glare from across the window, her heart rate suddenly picks up. All the lights suddenly are turned off and Lucille is left in the blood-curdling darkness. She shuts her eyes in dread, fearing what is to come. When the lights come back on, the light now illuminates towards the mysterious people behind the glass. Lucille’s greeted by the formidable sight of 3 men in black suits wearing masquerade masks. They stare ominously out of the window back at Lucille and to her dread she sees two of them holding an unconscious Annabelle by her arms, she’s slumped over unnaturally with her hair draped over like a wounded rabbit in the mouths of hungry wolves. The third man in the mask pointed a rifle at Annabelle’s head. “I suggest you sign that contract Lucille. We wouldn’t want you to lose another loved one.” Lucile thought she could scream, that her horror and anger would break her free from the handcuffs but she couldn't . She could only sit there and watch them holding Annabelle captive at gunpoint. Her only sister could die at her fault. “Alright!” she yells, her voice shaking. “I will sign your contract at any cost, just please-” Lucille’s voice quivers under the fear that they may blow out her sister’s brains if she raises her voice too much. “please..don’t.. hurt her.” Another figure in black appears and opens the door to the room. He’s wearing an identical masquerade mask like the rest of them. He gently removes Lucille’s handcuffs and hands her a pen. Immediately handing her a paper document of 2 pages and a pen she kneeled on the ground over at the paper anxiously, glancing at her sister every few seconds. 

I   (blank)  , solemnly swear not to go to any form of authority to disclose concern or information in regards to the death of Lucille Bethany Mayfield. 

I understand if I do proceed in doing so, I am at fault for my own bodily harm or injuries,  death by poison, death by affiliated torture, or death by gunshot wounds. I agree that my word belongs to the honour of the businessman John William Mayfield and his right in choosing death for his wife Lucille Bethany Mayfield. 

I understand my whereabouts shall be tracked and noted and any suspicious activity of mine can result in capture and imprisonment of up to 40 days depending on the circumstances of my act. 

Lucille knows that by signing this any form of freedom she once had would be stripped away. But Annabelle’s life is on the line. All she had to do was sign the contract and she would be safe. She wipes her tears with a shaking hand. The captor stares down at her eerily waiting for her to sign. Lucille gulps and tenderly writes her name across the blank space on the contract. She drops the pen when she finishes and sobs into her arms. “I did it,” she says, muffled into her hands. “Now please let her go.” Lucille could only hear the captor crank the door closed as he left with the contract. She looks up slowly. The handcuffs are open and left on the floor. Lucille feels a migraine seep into her mind. “Please! Let her go!!” she insists this time. The figures with masquerade masks carry a motionless Annabelle from the glass room and down the hall. Lucille watches. Fixated on their movements, her heart still nervously beating. The door clicks open to reveal a captor silently motioning her to come out. Lucille gets up. A wave of dizziness washes over as she follows the men in black. 

I slowly woke up to the same room she came from the first time. My head still throbs and one of my eyes is blurry. Faint crying soon enters my awareness. I recognize it as Lucille’s so I turned towards the noise, to see my sister sitting beside me. Her head in her hands, slowly I reach in her direction, touching her knee. Lucille lifts her head, her face red and stained with countless tears. All freedom had been lost. 

The date is April 15th, 1932

Annabelle and Lucille have been paranoid for days, after they had been let go from their capture they still had stains of purple beneath their fingernails. The boys in black had held their hands back as they walked them stoically out of the abandoned interrogation house. Annabelle recalls how their bare knees still trembled against the early April winds. The clock ticks on the wall of their old family-owned mansion. They had no other choice but to return home. Lucille stood with her head against the wall and her hands behind her back as if they were still in handcuffs. “It was all just a scare tactic” she tried convincing herself. “They don't have the will to actually kill us.” she felt as her voice creaked with denial. That was a lie as well, they had every reason to kill her and Annabelle in an instant. Now Lucille sits alone against the window. She stares blankly at the birds, the one sprinkled all across Brooklyn and manhattan. They move so freely, without any fear, even though they could be shot down in an instant or shattered against a glass wall they thought was open space. Lucille focuses on one bird in particular. A Mourning Dove. Lucille watches it sit on the tall oak tree branch beside the house. She situated herself, tucking her head into her wings and slanting her eyes yet still not closing them. She wouldn't sleep but she wouldn't move much either. She had dull feathers, but she still looked brighter than the common central park pigeons. Lucille wipes a tear from her face. She’s a Mourning Dove. It’s a surprise how much she related to this bird, a stupid bird that would fly away from any of their problems like a coward. 

June 24th 1925

Dear Diary,

It’s half-past ten now. John has been ignoring my calls. 

After I put the girls to bed, I sat on the floor and stared out the balcony windows like a madwoman. No matter what it is, they still seem to talk to me. The birds that habit our trees around the house. They have special powers I believe. I can imagine the closer I get to that window, I would feel it and maybe they would share some with me. I could use some more strength in this time of my life. My hands are so cold. And now as I look at them they seem to have a rash, and if I observe them longer, they look purple. For now, I should keep my gloves on, even if I'm washing my daughters. 

Annabelle woke up once again to the house she’s lived in all her life. The chandelier on the bottom staircase. The familiar creak as she walked down the hallway floorboards. The house was especially quiet now that they had come back from their California adventure. Anabelle itches her hands as she scans the downstairs library for another book to cope. 

She hears the faint crackling of the record starting to play upstairs. She fondles the smooth bumps across the bookshelf of perfectly aligned books. The music echoed to familiarity. It was a Duke Ellington album, 1922. an eerie reminder of the swing dancing at those parties. The ones they threw just where she stands now. Suddenly she remembers there's no way that record could be playing. She knew specifically that the record was packed away in dusty storage boxes in the attic after the funeral. A chill runs down her spine, slowly and harrowingly. She turns to her hands again, they itch and burn but as she watches them to the satisfaction she feels a gut-wrenching pain. Annabelle slowly turns her eyes to her right hand. The skin from her wrist to her thumb is peeling off like a layer of tar on the streets. It reveals a gooey underskin, purple in colour and covered in puss. She gags at the smell of it. That sickly sweet smell. The music only seems to get louder and drawn out as if somebody was slowing the song to a long, agonizing pace. Annabelle notices the air around her get tighter and tighter until she can no longer stand it. She drops the books on the floor and runs up the stairs. The longer she runs, the longer and taller the stairs seem. Each step seems to be far too slow but the smarting jazz only continues to play. 

    
The music suddenly stops and Annabelle is greeted by the face of Lucille. She seems concerned. “What's the matter?” she asks. Annabelle can not form any words to explain her terror. She points with a trembling finger to the record player beside the window, where Lucille stood. Lucille turns to look at it and then back at her. “There’s nothing on? Do you want to play somethi-” Lucille stops mid-sentence when Annabelle angrily swings her head left to right. “Alright alright” still in a panic, Annabelle raises her arm to examine her right hand, but oddly the damages are gone. She stares at the perfectly healthy bare skin looking back at her. Lucille laughs awkwardly and begins her way downstairs, with Annabelle following her. When they get down, they see 4 books thrown across the floor and nothing else. Lucille looks at her sister as if she was a lunatic. Even though she knew before long she would be one too. 

They turn to each other. “We have to turn the evidence in,” says Annabelle. Her voice is dire and her eyes are wide with insistence. “No..no  They’ll have us killed.” Lucille answers. She turns her eyes to the floor and begins biting her nails. A habit she stopped years ago but brought up again. “What if it’s all a lie? What if we told them and nothing happens. They simply get put in prison and can never hurt us?” Lucille has never heard Annabelle speak this much and so articulately. “And I can certainly tell you, it would look horribly suspicious if we both died only 8 years after their mother.” she ends with a long sigh. As if the words exhausted her. The Truth can never die. Certainly, everyone dies but what is done will always be marked onto the skins of unforgettable history.  Slowly Lucille lifts her head. Tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “It’s frustrating isn't it?” Lucille hisses “Being told to keep quiet when the most unspeakable thing has been done to the one you loved.” As she speaks her lips tremble. Annabelle nodes along lifelessly. 

The one-woman that raised them, that shared her grace and kindness, 

The women that had patience, 

The women covered their ears as their drunken father spat out profanities after another day of money laundering. 

The one-woman that let herself wither away all to keep the promise of her girls' brilliant futures. 

Both of them now melted underneath the heat of their tears.

The Date is April 18th, 1932

April showers were proven to be quite a real event. The thunder plummets down upon downtown Brooklyn as the girls nervously head down the wet sidewalks. They share one umbrella and squeeze tightly together. The other had been lost. Annabelle holds the umbrella above them as Lucille focuses on the city map between her fingers, she tries desperately not to get wet but the water is so messy yet so comforting. Soon they arrived. The New York City Police Department. They drop the umbrella at the door and stand closely as they immediately are hit by the Air conditioning against their dampened clothes, sending shivers up their bare legs. Not many places had air conditioning, only the important ones. At the counter, there are policemen in uniform. They wore navy pants and long-sleeved jackets buttoned down precisely. “How can I help you ladies?'' one of them said looking back and forth between Annabelle and Lucille. His breath smells chalky like aged cigarettes. Like all the policemen he was pale with grey eyes. Annabelle wondered how many deaths they’ve encountered, how many tragedies would it take for them to give up their life of fighting crime. “I’d like to change our mother’s death certificate.” The Policeman’s demeanor changes slightly. But what did he expect? His job was meant to keep New York safe. The Mayfield Sisters were not safe. They stand alone. “Alright, And what is your mother’s full name and date of birth?” he asks. “Lucille Bethany Mayfield and her date of birth is October 10th, 1895” she answers. Her voice is strong. Annabelle glances around the room to be sure no men in masquerade masks are pointing guns in their direction. The Policeman leans over to retrieve a file. “And you said you have reason to change your mother’s cause of death?” he asks with a much more serious expression, the file in hand. The Girls both nod in unison. “You girls come on back, to speak with our investigator.” 

July 7th 1924

Dear Diary, 

When I’m left alone at night all I can see is the lack of room with very small orbs of shimmer. Darkness has the boldest secrets though it’s as well bitterly quiet. When I close my eyes though I can only think of the time John wrapped his tight fingers around my neck and told me I shall never say a word of what I saw that night. He killed a man. Silvester Jones. He was a young police officer, probably new to his job. And I watched every second of it. When I stare at my reflection I see the remains of the woman I once was. I’ve lost many strands of hair and where my cheeks used to be nice and rosy, they are now a dull colour of a sickish grey. But, believe me, guilt is paramount. I couldn't stand it. It was harrowing. Last night I sent off a letter to the New York city police department. I was honest about everything. I should regret it. But, I won’t even if it ruins every broken piece of my marriage. I;m not proud of what has become of me. And now I can only wait to watch as it worsens. 

The girls walk anxiously behind the lead of the policeman. He motions them to sit in a small office with sad colors but comfortable seating. 

When they sit they make contact with another policeman sitting perpendicular to them with the most serious look on his face. Annabelle stares back while Lucille takes note of every detail of the room they sit in. The walls are ugly. And it’s quite obvious how desperate the department was to hide them. They have up picture frames from years back, glorifying authority. Lucille jerks her head to face the officer. “We have reason to believe our mother was murdered and if you take a look at- the officer interrupts her with a hand flattened in her direction. Signalling her to be silent. “I understand that ma’m but we need the consent of a parent or guardian to go any further,” he says. Lucille widens her eyes and leans back ever so slightly as if she’s been insulted. Before she can speak Annabelle pipes up. “Our mother is dead and our father wants us dead, we don't have any parents or guardians looking after us.” the policeman clearly tries not to smile at that statement he sits casually with his chin resting on his hand “I beg your pardon?” Annabelle may have been mute for 5 years but her voice was just as loud as any extrovert. Lucille leans forward again looking the “detective” straight in the soul. “She SAID, our mother is dead and our father wants us dead. If you don't believe me then you can…” Lucille’s voice trailed off. She couldn't exactly prove to him they had been kidnapped and forced to sign a contract. Defeated, she bows her head. The policeman sighs but still has a serious look on his face. “I suggest we give your father a call.” but he already begins lifting himself from his chair. “No!.. Please don’t we don't know what he might do to us, he really ACTUALLY wants to kill us, he has a whole team of killers after us, the same people that killed our mother if I do say so, they ADMITTED it and everything” Annabelle spat out. She's done her best pretending to be her own mother and father, But she could really use parental guidance at this moment. The girls both stiffen with dread. Annabelle sits like a statue staring at something only she could see and Lucille is standing now, trying her best to seem taller than she really is.  the policeman stares at them as if all of their concerns are only childish nonsense. “He can’t hurt you through a single telephone call” Lucille feels a strange urge to laugh. She forgot her own age, she even has to count a bit in her head. She sighs, looks down, and back up again. “He abandoned us, you could check that to be true. He sends us money every month or two all the way from London, and we haven't even seen his face for 5 years. I’m only thirteen years old and she’s only ten” Annabelle finds herself frozen staring up at her sister. “John William Mayfield” her eyes burn as the tears slowly trickle down her neck. The policeman’s neck pivots to the side. Now he’s beginning to care. He'd obviously heard the name before. Annabelle drags the diary from her bag and holds her to her heart as if it was her mother’s arm begging her to stay longer. “We found her diary,” Lucille says “We discovered Our father killed a man, you may know him...Silvester Jones?” The policeman immediately slaps a hand to his mouth, Looking at Lucille as if she has stabbed him directly in the chest, with the widest brown eyes. Lucille glances down at his badge. 

   Walter Jones- Police Detective

May 14th, 1924

In sincere regards to the Jones family,

My deepest condolences I send to you.
I understand Silvester was a loved man,

He was a son, a grandson, a nephew, a brother

And a friend of mine. I offer my love and support 

To you at this time. May you cherish his soul

In your heart for eternities to come. 

I would like to mention,

My intentions are pure and I hope you 

all understand it’s best an accident what 

became of dear Silvester.

God Bless you all. Mercifully,

John William Mayfield

And Lucille Bethany Mayfield

643 Queen's Gambit Dr. 

Brooklyn, New York the USA

“Your father...he was the last person to have been with Silvester, my younger brother, he had a bad habit of tripping over nothing, he broke his left arm more than 4 times and it wasn't unbelievable that he fell down the stairs that day.” The 3 of them now retire back to their seats. Anabelle only stares at the wide space of matter ahead of her but only emptiness stares back. “I’m terribly sorry,” Lucille says in the kindest voice. It reminds her of her mother’s voice. If she was here today, surely she would be sorry too. “I’ll have your father under arrest by Friday. I’ll call the London police department first thing in the morning,” he says this as he keeps his eyes on the floor. Maybe he was crying. They tried to imagine the famously successful Dr. Mayfield in handcuffs, in a prison uniform, sitting beside other heartless killers. Maybe they would bully him, maybe they would beat guilt into him. He not only murdered his beautiful wife but also ruined the life of his daughters. “We still feel the need to be protected.” says Annabelle softly. Her hands tucked neatly into her lap and her eyes still focused on a void of endless oblivion. Then there’s silence for a long few seconds. “I’ll see what we can do….you should never have to live in fear, especially not when you're doing what must be done.” 

August 4th, 1925

Dear Diary,

My skin seems to be decaying. My hands are sunken in and a hideous shade of purple-grey is now tinting them, it feels as though I'm rotting away from the inside out. I would see the doctor but I’m not sure if he would tell John. I think John wants this to happen. Part of me believes he finds pleasure in my pain. We met on my 18th birthday at the Fraunces Tavern. He was only 20 and happened to spill his wine on my dress while fumbling around with a large tray of bread and butter. I remember how mortified he was profusely apologizing to me and I couldn't help but laugh with the dirty look my mother gave him. He was a waiter at the time and living in a small apartment down the Manhattan boardwalk, dreaming of going to business school and proving he could make it. Every time I look back on it, it seems more like a silly fever dream. How did such a sweet young gentleman turn into John Mayfield? Another fond memory I have is back when I was 6 months pregnant with Lucille. We still couldn't settle on a name until John suggested with his arms wrapped around mine one night that we should name her after me. When I asked why he said “wouldn't you want to live through the child we created together, when she signs her name she’s always a part of you” and I couldn't help but break down in tears. It was the best thing anyone has ever told me. I didn't realize how much I wanted to be a mother, The only intimacy I share with him now is his secrets. His disgusting, despicable and dishonorable secrets. I would have filed for divorce Just after the girls had been born if I would have known it would become this way. As long as I’m here I must keep my girls safe. They may have a wicked father but at least they have me right? I can teach them well. I can only hope and wish that they will understand one day. 

I would do anything for them, even stay with their father.

Annabelle slowly closes the diary after reading it to her sister and looks up tenderly in her direction. “That was for you” but her intentions are too late. Tears stream from Lucille’s face. Her eyes are exhausted and red. “.....you're really beautiful when you're crying” still trying her best. They sit close together in the bed of the upstairs bedroom that once belonged to the perfect husband and wife of the Mayfield Family. It’s late and still, the press and policemen are doing their dances. Talking loudly and walking up and down the stairs. The day had lasted longer than years and still in the tender hours of the morning they could not sleep. Someone in the neighborhood brought over a cake they left it in a box with ribbon tied over it on the doorstep, with a little bit too much frosting for the girls. Everyone knows now. They’ve never had so much company before and from that day forward they would be under authoritative surveillance. They under no circumstances could be permitted to leave the house unless it’s absolutely mandatory. They will have 2 police cars around the perimeter of the house, keeping watch of any suspicious activity and if any is reported they will immediately go into lockdown. Lucille wipes her tears “Thank you... Annabelle.” They've eaten almost all of the sympathy cake at this point and they still have 2 potato and green bean casseroles in the fridge from the family across the street, the same one with the girl that adopted  Prince (their kitten). Lucille snuck in a glass of wine from the downstairs wine cellar. Annabelle stares at her sister now. The diary closed in her hands. “I’ve… almost read the entire thing,” she says. Now her thumb rested in between 2 thin pages and the rest of the diary. Lucille numbly places a hand on her chest. “Do you think I'm like her?” her voice had never been so quiet and soft it almost seemed like she was trying to pretend to be her own mother. “Of course, she lives through you, that’s why you're named after her,” Annabelle says, a smile slowly bending onto her face, trying to be comforting. Lucille turns to face her. Her eyes seem to be infected now. They have purple ooze coming from them and her eyes drip uncontrollably. It startles Annabelle immediately, her smile wiped clean. “I’m losing my mind aren't I?” as she speaks, drools seep from her lips, it’s purple and fizzy.“no..no you aren't” Annabelle says, concerned she gets up from the bed. “What did you drink?” she asks but Lucille begins laughing and drops her head into her lap, surprisingly flexible. Her face is pale and her arms seem to have bruises on them, but they seem to be more like mold instead. “They're killing me! I can feel it!” she screams, in between fits of laughter. Annabelle gets up now, running around the room she finds the closest window and opens it wide, bringing in fresh, clean air. She runs back to her sister and begins dragging her desperately to the window, the night sets in. Lucille playfully dips her head into the waves of air flowing out of the window still laughing and melting into a mess. Annabelle holds her up by the shoulders. “What did you take?!” She does her best to protect her delicate voice. But Lucille can't stop giggling. “I..don't know” but Annabelle’s question has already been answered. She leans over her shoulder with dread. The cake. The hefty lavender-colored frosting. It’s laced. Not only is Lucille poisoned but she’s drunk. Somebody poured in the same window cleaner in the frosting that killed their mother. Now they sit with their mouths foaming and their fingers twitching. They leaned on each other, waiting for their time to end.

    This is a formal letter addressed to the Department of Justice in London, England 

Issued April 21st, 1932 

In regards to the whereabouts of Businessman Dr.John William Mayfield

Whom it may concern the subject referenced is wanted and we have formally issued a manhunt in this rightful state of the investigation.

This is an arrest warrant to have the subject above arrested and put to the eyes of the court 

-One count of conspiracy to commit murder

-One count of Complicity and/or Hiring of individuals to commit murder against a spouse

-2 counts of child abandonment and neglect of the 1st degree

-4 counts of fraudulent checks and bank information

- 12 counts of conspiracy to commit money laundering

We not only believe your citizen Dr. John William Mayfield is aware of these accusations and is a danger to commit further crime. 

We, the Department of Justice of New York City, United States of America;

strongly suggest he should be deported from London back to New York City to be properly charged for his crimes so he may no longer be a danger to your people

The details of his sentencing and day in court depend completely on the cooperation on your professional behalf. Please consider our words.

In Sincere Regards,

Detective Walter Jones

Investigative Captain of The New York City Police Department

492 Campton Avenue

Brooklyn State.

Annabelle gently lays the side of her face against the floor. Her hair pressed to her skin with sweat. The only sound that can be heard is the distant chatter of frenzied police officers. The mystery of the dark early hours of the morning pours into the room through the open window. The blurry glow of the lamp beside the un-made bed and that mellifluous smell seeping into a puddle around her fingers and mouth. The world seemed to be letting go of all exhausting attemption, falling under the waves of sweet surrender. She can feel the presence of Lucille behind her, probably passed out. All of her motivation is gone. Maybe it fell out of the window like the rest of her promises to keep going, to carry on digging for justice. It was no surprise, no reaction when the officers barged into the room, running around urgently and slamming the window closed. Annabelle could not bear to decipher the meaning behind their language, the pointless chatter. One of them lifts her off the floor and she watches her perspective change. She’s among the atoms in air particles they all have stories similar to hers and they brush against her body so swiftly and softly. The officers' panicked hearts have no way at all of hindering Annabelle’s experience. She’s floating in the softest clouds and ascending into a world of elation, high enough to reach the tops of heaven, maybe god himself sat there in his throne. 

“Call a lockdown immediately! We may have an intruder in the premises” Detective Jones directs the cops around. More of the crowd up and down the stairs as they scatter for control. The girls are lifted, placed onto stretchers, and carried down the stairs. The cake is photographed. The diary is photographed. The sticky poison is photographed and then the house is silent. Dead silent. 

    
This is a formal letter addressed to the department of justice of New York City on April 24th, 1932

We have formally issued a warrant to have Businessman Dr. John William Mayfield expedited from London, England to New York City, the United States of America. He has been placed under authoritative custody until we can have him transported by plane back to New York City.

Once placed under arrest,  he was at first very obedient and compliant of us but once we mentioned his charges of child abandonment he began to get restless even stating in a quote “I knew those little cunts would tell, they always disobey me” he became especially agitated after we read him his Miranda rights so we had no choice but to sedate him after he threatened to harm our security officers and to harm himself. We agree that John William Mayfield has clearly expressed himself as a danger to society and unfit to be a father and safely be left without supervision. 

This morning he was evaluated by a physiatrist who reported that Dr.John William Mayfield seemed to exhibit signs of narcissism and a strong belief that his wife and young daughters deserved to die for his sense of power and financial gain. We plan his extradition to take place next week. In the meantime, he will be in jail especially after he clearly admitted to his crimes. Please update us regarding the case and we will update the court in his trial of deportation. The following information is most definitely not confidential primarily because of Dr.John William mayfield’s status and will surely be told to the press. 

In best intentions,

Detective Oliver Weddenburg

London City Police Department

137 Winston Street

The Date is April 25th, 1932 

Detective Walter Jones gently drops the open envelope into the trash and continues reading the note over and over again. He has no time to feel guilty about the happenings of last night. But how did the London press get word of the girls' poisonings? Information regarding children was strictly meant to be confidential. Whoever did this to them probably was proud enough to tell some hungry journalist. Walter sits at his desk casually. His feet rested on the table and his fingers on his chin, thinking long fully. Speaking of the Devil. The Police Department Secretary walks in stoically without a word and places an envelope on Walter’s Desk. He waits a moment to see if she’ll bother to say a word but she only turns back around and walks out of the room...crying very quietly and her hand placed around her mouth. Concerned, Walter opens the already un-sealed envelope.

April 25th, 1932

651 Vanzenhaunt Avenue

Brooklyn State

New York City, USA

To Whom It May concern,

Annabelle Daisy Mayfield and Lucille Maurine Mayfield 

Both died due to an overdose of an unknown chemical substance. We are saddened to inform you of their untimely deaths and their bodies reside in the mourque of the New York State Cemetery, Because they have no other family members fit to take financial responsibility their bodies shall wait for burial until any family members come to claim financial responsibility-

Walter stops reading there. He cannot seem to understand what he does at all now, but he notices his fingers loose grasp of the letter as it slips away and slices the air until it hits the floor. No sound can be heard. Walter feels his face grow steamy until he wipes his eyes and notices his tears, 

“The World is Cruel” he notices his lips forming those words as an attempt to comfort himself. Someone said that to him once after Silvester died. 

“The World is Cruel” he can’t help but repeat it. Those Bright little girls are dead. Their lives are done, they  never even knew themselves before they were already looking for answers on such a painful note. Now they're dead. Probably cold, Probably Pale. Probably in the last place they should ever have to even consider being but they’re there anyway. They’re lifeless bodies, just vessels wrapped in skin, meant to rot away into old dust and minerals and they would be forgotten. Buried under the trenches of history. “The World is too Cruel!” he feels himself scream and then he collapses into a fit of  uncontrollable sobs. 

Investigate Tip Report

Issued May 3rd, 1932

By Assistant Detective Vincent Duller

New York City Police Department

At the scene of the tipped address we discovered evident material that will be primarily used in the case against John William Mayfield.

-9 grams of Strychnine poisoning in a powdered form

-3 bottles of “Razzle window cleaner solution”

-6 grams of Iodine crystals in a bowl in attempt of being crushed into a powder form

-one bottle of Chloroform (half empty)

This crucial evidence found above can be considered incriminating at the least. We strongly believe the material above was used to kill Lucille Bethany Mayfield and used as an attempt to kill her 2 children who shall remain anonymous for their personal protection. 

492 Campton Avenue

Brooklyn State.

The Date is May 4th 1932. I couldn't sleep last night, so they gave me more shots and then I was gone. Now I stare inconsolably at the hospital ceiling. My name Is Annabelle, I’m only 10. If only I could explain to them but my throat is filled with tight anxiety, I worry that if  I open her mouth to them I’ll only break into another round of hopeless tears. I imagined myself saying “could I please just see my sister?” it’s as simple as that and surely, at least out of pity they would take me there. All I want right now is to see her face along with her long brown hair and sharp eyebrows. They put her in the most intensive part of the hospital but they couldn't bother to explain why. They held me back, They wheeled me down the halls, They muffled my screams. I keep myself as pensive as possible. Only I can care for herself. The painkillers seem to have powers I do not understand. They allow me to reach a spiritual awareness beyond the brink of the imperfect human mind. They told me I hit the side of my head on the way down. Now a bruise lies there. She’s been struck right where all of her reason and rationality is stored. The door opens, cutting the edge of silence. This is my chance Ask about Lucille. Say the lines you’ve been rehearsing. “How are you feeling today, darling?”  She's a nurse, at least she looks like one. She kneels  beside my bed holding a tray she does her best to  keep from my line of sight. I allow my voice to flow from my mouth. “..I...I would like to...can I please ... see ... see ... see ... see..see.see my sister?” I hear myself say. the nurse narrows her eyes and smiles sadly. “I don’t think you're fit for that yet, darling” she turns her head back to the tray on the table and picks up something. “Just relax now darling, I think you should rest” before I could follow my chance to speak again, the needle goes in, penetrating my vein as the smell hits me again pushing me back under the wave of consciousness I go into the world of clouds and delusions. 

\Following a long night of fighting crime. Walter Jones pours himself a rightfully deserved glass of beer. These were the kind of nights he would call up Silvester and they would sit together on  the living room couch laughing and recounting whimsical childhood memories. Now he sits alone. Without a wife to kiss him on the cheek, without children to raise. He’s alone with his solitude until the phone rings from across the house. He demands his knees to pivot into a swing and walk towards the phone. Back on his feet again he picks up the phone. 

“Detective Walter Jones, How may I be of service to you?”

He forces himself to say.

“Detective yes, will you please provide us with the hospital the Mayfield girls are in? The Foster parents are here and they’d like to meet them-”

It’s a new young officer speaking on the other end. He’s fresh-faced and obviously immature in the eyes of Walter.  The Foster parents are here and they’d like to meet them-”

How incredibly offensive

“...I think you're mistaken...The Mayfield girls..at least to my knowledge are dead... So with all due respect...I don't believe they need parents anymore.” Walter Answers 

He says this with sharp sarcasm. Nobody has the right to disturb him anymore. Especially not a 57 year old man. He tilts his wrists to hang up the phone before he hears a voice again.

“Detective..I’m very sorry..I really thought.. never mind.”

Clearly embarrassed the officer hangs up immediately but Walter still holds the phone to his ear. He hears himself thinking. What if the girls are alive after all? It’s wildly childish but it would be quite incredible. 

Walter finds himself back at the precinct. He couldn't sleep thinking of this case and now he finds himself fingering around the evidence cabinet. Looking through old files like a madman. The building is dark and the wind is cold. He begins to feel a prickle creak up the side of us back and behind his neck. The atmosphere grows sharp and intense. He stands up, searching around, Then he hears it, a light tapping at the door. All of his senses on fire he gets up and runs towards it and swings it open.

I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart beating rapidly. It was a bad dream, not a bad dream, a nightmare I might argue. I need to finish my mother’s diary. Part of me believes she wants me to. I wish I could tell what day it is, I wish I could tell if it may be raining outside of these walls but I’m alone. My head has been badly damaged. I only know that because without even looking it throbs even when I lighting press on the bruise. I wonder if she knew she was dying. I wonder if she predicted we would be reading it and planning how to make peace with her death but we could only hope, I imagine. I need to see if I can get out of here. I don't think this is really a hospital. I think it’s a zoo, a Circus cage. Maybe they’re all watching me right now as I fall into a world of obsidian. 

There, standing on the first few steps towards the building is a girl. Walter has seen a few times before, her face is grey and her eyes seem red and tired. Her arms are thin and her hair, a stringy brown. Her arms tremble with the lack of warmth from her small nightgown and her now filthy white socks. She stares at me coldly but so surprised. She had her arms wrapped around each other and I noticed they are covered in bruises of varying degrees. She looks as if she’s been beaten by eggplants with the purple tinted color of her scars. “Lucille?” Walter asks in shock. He can't feel his mouth form the words they’re numb in surprise. She nods slowly and attempts to take a step towards him but she falls back into a sleep, He catches her before she can add to her collection of bruises and carries her inside. She lies on the floor like a broken doll that had been mistreated. She seemed to be on the brink of death and all Walter can do now is watch sadly with her head in his lap. Her eyes shoot open, it startles him for a second, She sits up energetically “my sister is still there, please..go find her, you can leave me here” Walter scrambles around his head for what to do next, Her eyes seem to fade in and out of reason as she becomes closer and closer to death. “Where is she?” he hears himself ask. She breathes in a sharp take of air and out slowly “I didn't die, not because of them..the address is on the letter..find it.” She directs him. Then in one more sharp breath she passes out again, her head tilted far back from her neck.

I think it’s meant to be this way

Everyone has some sort of purpose even

 if that purpose is just to live and die

You still have a reason

I’d like to think my purpose was surviving.

It’s the only thing that makes sense to me

It started off easy 

and then, when I believed I couldn't go on

Lucille saved me

She reminded me, I’m supposed to survive

And I do the best job at it.

Walter journeys to the address given from the letter.

651 Vanzenhaunt Avenue

Brooklyn State

New York City, USA

This time the strings are tying together into the perfect crime. Walter figures the criminals will all be gone when they arrive, Annabelle is in Danger and the least they could do is search around for more evidence at this address. 

The Date is now May 3rd, 1932. It’s early in the morning and Lucille has died. She died on the floor in the precinct. It was confirmed by the other officers on duty. Now, all is left to test what killed her, and she too can be used to charge John Mayfield of another count of secondhand murder. The worst part would be telling the girl left to suffer the aftershock. Annabelle. The girl of few words. She spoke through Lucille, now - Lucille is gone, she’s gone somewhere we couldn't imagine. The hill going up Vansenhaunt street was long and cold. If Annabelle is at this address, she could be with the perpetrators and maybe the perpetrators know the police are coming and are now waiting for them.

What happened to me? Did I ever have a real-life or was all of this some sort of performance, a sad tale of omission and a little girl that drowned in an ocean of restless regret. I lay my head back down on the pillow, rejoicing to the rhythm of emptiness. I'm somehow jolted into a memory. I close my eyes, allowing it to play and there it was.

_ Lucille pulled me from the depths of despair or more realistically, the upstairs bathtub. I was already dead though, my soul had shifted far from here. 

I’ve been in pain for so long, riding the waves of perpetual angst over and over again. I couldn't see myself doing it anymore.

My face is wet, but somehow cleaner than ever before. I’m not worried that she doesn't know how deeply I love her: and appreciate protection over me, how she so easily took the role of my guardian angel.

Suddenly I’m frightened with echoes coming from outside my room. Cautiously I tilt my head left, doing my best not to hit the soft spot that hurts. It sounds like an argument of sorts but I can't even understand it, I’m entirely distant. I thought it would scare me but instead it only fades into meaningless noise. Then suddenly, the door breaks. I think my heart is thumping faster now, but how could I possibly tell, I don’t even know if I have the rights to my own body anymore. Before I can think another thought. Flashlights and nervous voices beam around me I feel gloved hands lift my head and arms under my knees lift me from the bed. My eyes are probably closed at this point and my head leaning lazily off. I’m being saved once again. The cold mid-morning air hits me when we get outside. I’m shivering beneath my skin and deeper. Nothing is reaching my senses. I don’t think I live in this place anymore, I think I’ve graduated from all that is simple. The spirit of time has adopted me. And now all I do is watch as they do their work and mourn the child I once was. Here is a space quiet and quiescence. 

Walter and his men with great surprise find the missing child. But to their vast disappointment, She’s obviously dead. Her body is pale and her muscles are feeble and limp. Her lips seem to be coated in a black residue but when the late moonlight hits her snowy skin, it seems to be dark purple. His Assistant carries her like a child carrying his broken toy to his mother, hoping desperately it can be fixed but still internally knowing it most definitely can not. It’s as useful as a handful of dirt, so easily disregarded and so easily ignored. Everyone is now silent. They have people in handcuffs. They have the press circled around the property, cameras flashing and tears falling but the little girl still refuses to breathe. She’s cold and beginning to statue herself into a realm of mystery. The Assistant detective bends his knees and lays the child on the grass, her body back into the arms of nature, back into the arms of her mother and back into the wonderful world far away from here. Walter stands like a tree. His arms flat against his hips and his head bowed with grievous defeat. Even the criminals responsible for this act of horror bow their heads respectfully. The child’s dignity is stronger than the weight of the moon above them. 

Hours later as the sun begins to rise, the bodies are placed beside each other, their heads tilted towards each other and their eyes closed. Days later, John William Mayfield arrived to New york and was charged with 4 counts of murder. 

He pleaded guilty to each and every charge and walked into his death sentence with a particularly vile and horrifying frown stretched beneath his nose. 

In June of 1932, The girls had been buried beside their mother, at a  magnificent lake reserve and a tall, mournful, willow tree hung above it. Like never before, birds of all kinds visited their graves every morning to sleep in the peaceful shade as they came to pay their respects to the ladies that refused to dismiss the Immoral truth. 

I find myself here, in a pillowy fortress of light, it flows through me and around me like a pool of soft delight. I ease myself up slowly and then I recognize everything. The sound of heaven. Something tells me I’m a new soul but something else tells me I’ve been expected here forever.

September 4th 1925

The night is always colder than the day because the sun is behind the world, waiting for our period of crepuscular darkness to end. I’m here lighting candles in the room my daughter’s sleep in. my morals will live inside them. They’re so young to lose a mother and though It’s quite neglectful of me to die this way. It’s entirely my right to watch as I amort myself from the body I once had and descend into a place of ineluctable freedom. The truth has set me free, and away I die in peace. Once the world learns this, they shall accept it for how it is. 

I’ll be waiting. Goodbye.

Lucille Bethany Mayfield

The end

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