“Ah. Alone at last.” he smiles at me and gestures for me to sit in Tierney’s chair. I do not move and his smile fades.
“Not afraid of me, are you?” he sounds worried.
“Should I be?”
“Not at all. We have something in common, after all. We’re both artists.” He gestures to the covered walls of his prison. There are so many drawings taped to the walls, it’s hard to make them all out from where I stand.
“Most of them I did myself.” He goes and takes one down from the wall. “But occasionally I collect them from other talented artists.” He walks back to me. “My latest addition is this fine example.”
“Mireille!” I gasp out. It’s the page of Mireille, half-naked, from my sketchbook. I rush forward, grabbing at it through the bars, but he backs away quickly.
“Mind your manners now.”
“Give her back to me!” I cry out. How dare he? They must have taken it the day Tierney drugged me.
“In a moment. Let’s take a look at it together first, shall we?” he replies calmly, ignoring my outstretched hands.
“Now then. It’s a little rough, but the talent shines through. The lines..” his hand traces over the drawing and lands on Mireille’s bare breasts. “They are quite beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Don’t do that!” I shout at him. He looks blankly at me as if I’ve said something else, then turns and looks back at the sketch.
“Even like this, in her most vulnerable moment…you can see it. You can feel it.” his voice drops in admiration. “The anger. The power.”
I shake the bars in fury. That he would dare to touch her like that...I can feel the frustrated tears forming in my eyes.
“You can have it back now.” he says nonchalantly, as if my outburst never occurred.
I stick my hand back through the bars, reaching for it.
“On the condition you let me see your lifeline.”
“My- what?” I stretch in as far as I can. He holds the sketch just out of reach.
“The lifeline on your hand. Fortune tellers use it to see how long you’ll live.” He takes my hand in his and opens my palm. I fight the overwhelming desire to pull my hand away. His fingertips slowly trace over my palm. His hands are so pale next to my skin, that I look even darker than usual. For some reason, I think of how the moon and the night complement one another.
“Interesting.” He places the sketch in my hand and drops it free. I snatch it away from him and take a few steps back. I look down at the sketch. Though still beautiful, it now seems tainted somehow. I shake my head in disgust.
“So you’ve become rather close to…the man you call your Uncle.”
I glance over at him, wondering what he wants now.
“Commendable. It’s wise to know the face of your enemy.”
He sounds…just like Uncle.
“Uncle is my friend.” I glare at him. He’s done enough with Mireille already; I won’t let him start on about Uncle.
He sighs and closes his eyes, as if remembering something.
“He was my friend too, once. But he left me. In my darkest hour, in the time of my most desperate need, he left me. And he will do the same to you. Soldats comes before any single human.”
He opens his eyes and stares at me. I want to look away, but can’t.
“I find that I care about your future. So I give you this warning now. Don’t trust him, or any of them.”
I do not know how to respond to this. Suddenly I think of what happened to Mireille and her Uncle. I remember Mireille's outburst from a few days ago: Soldats took my family. All they want to protect, is their own interest.
I stare at Droger, unsure of what to say or do next. Why is he telling me these things?
“Since you were so kind to give me a sketch, I made one for you.” He goes back to the wall and leans down, gently tearing off a paper.
“I don’t want it.” I blurt out at him. I wonder where Mireille and Uncle are, I don’t want to be alone with this man any longer. I don’t want to hear what he’s saying.
“But you might find it of interest.” he holds up the sketch for me to see.
My mouth drops open, and I feel my body begin to shake.
It’s same sketch of my dreams…the nightmare room.
“Take it.” his voice is low in invitation. “Go on, take it. I won’t touch you again.”
I find my hand, shaking, reaching back in. He gently lets the paper fall into my hand.
“That’s my girl.” he whispers. “I knew you’d like it.”
I take it back out, and stare at it. It’s the same room- the same open shutters, the small bed on the right, the broken chair laying across the floor. I want to ask him about it, but find I’m too full of fear to say anything. I’m not sure I want to know.
I bite my lip, and turn the sketch over in my hands. I see some writing on the back of the paper.
It says: For Anna…
“This name…did you originally draw this for someone else?”
“No.”
“My name… is Kirika.” Isn’t it?
“If that’s what they would have you believe.” He puts his hands on his knees, lowering his body down so his eyes meet mine.
“What….what do you know about me?” I feel my chest tighten so hard I can barely breathe.
“More than you do, obviously.” he whispers, and beckons to me.

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