The Master Plan

          The moment I walked into the master’s study, I was appalled by all the antique, tranquil decorations plastered among every wall. He was upset by the fact that I couldn’t translate the Russian written on his old, stolen maps that hung among the wall across the bed, covering up the archaic yellow wallpaper underneath. There were photographs in wooden frames everywhere, exposing the inner workings of his manic brain. There were trees, swaying in the wind outside the window by the bed, calming me. It was the place I looked when my mind got too heavy to comprehend the plan.

            The first night I had arrived, I was still recovering from my acid trip the night before. Nothing seemed real at first, until he showed me the special book with a wrinkled and flaky brown leather binding. When the other mistresses would walk into the study, the books pages would go completely blank as if it was predicting a bleak future for all of them. It was a special thing only the master and I could read.

            His skin was white as alabaster, and he held a deep voice underneath his crooked smile. He lured me in with his sweet talk about past lives and uncrossed paths between the two of us. I should of known then this would end in pure trouble. He began to persuade me again, brushing my cheek with his hand as he called me beautiful.

“You’ve helped me out in the end of every life,” he said. The master began a story about being burned at the stake, and how my parents from the local dairy farm allowed me to freely give him a glass of goat’s milk before his execution.

“What does a horse carriage mean to you?” He asked.

“My parents.”

He did not understand, his silence egged me on to go further with the blasphemous story I wanted to hold inside my gut forever. The lump in my throat told me it was time to let this go.

“They were weak people” I began. “My mother was missing half of her body, as if her chest couldn’t hold a heart, so they had to cut it out and replace it.”

His dark brown eyes scanned mine, reassuring me this was a secret I could keep safe with only him.

“My father once was shot with a bow and arrow in the head. He wasn’t quite right either. There was…a joker there in the safe house where we stayed. I was insanely attracted to him, though he was too old for me. They tried to keep me away from him, but all we were doing was playing chess.”

There was a gulp in his throat I could spy by concentrating on his adams apple.

“The horse carriage,” I went on, “well it drove us children away right before the building blew up. My parents watched me as the horse galloped away, before they were burned to death by the explosion.”

“Who was driving the carriage, do you remember, Miss Henry?”

“Yes, the joker. He saved my life.”

He then planted a quick kiss on my lips, and afterwards he looked scared as hell.

“I would do anything for you” he managed to muster with a cracked voice.

It was obvious to me then what he was saying. He was the joker and I was not allowed to love him, even though my heart so insanely did.