She was a peculiar woman, Mary Maloney. She had beautiful, terrifying features- her black hair and tempestuous blue eyes seemed eerily dissonant, and her face remained unnervingly still. Her pale, immaculate skin made her appear as if a Grecian statue. No one had seen her move. At least, not lately- she seemed to creep beneath the consciousness of most, subtly shifting in the corners of their eyes, silently malignant, like a feral cat lurking in the shadows.


Now, she was perched on her scratchy cotton cot in the corner, her strangely long legs pulled up to her chest. Two skeletal, paper-white hands clutched her knees, making the twin purple rings around her wrists ache dully. Tympanic footsteps resonated from down the hallway. It would be Matron Shannon. She could hear her fumbling with the slot in her door.


“Mary, come to the window, please.” Muttered the matron in a thick Irish brogue. There was no point in struggling now. She heaved herself off of the bed and scurried to the door obediently, and with slight hesitation crossed her wrists behind her back and stuck them out of the small, square window, wincing as the cold metal of the cuffs made contact with her already bruised wrists. The door swung open behind her. The matron’s cold hand grasped Mary’s left forearm. They walked quickly and tensely down the hallway, out of the building, and into the prison courtyard. A black car was parked there, and an authoritative looking woman sat behind the wheel.

“Where are you taking me?” Mary whispered in a hoarse voice. Shannon stared at her quizzically.



“To see Patrick, of course”