Occupy_855
Legacy Name: Occupy_855

My feet made the softest swish as the velveteen on the base of my slippers slid ever so gracefully across the cobblestones on the la strada per l'inferno. It was night, the stars watched me with their ever disproving glare as I made my way under the window of the mansion of Vincention de Lombardi. I ran my finger over the wooden frame and smiled. Old balsa, from the forests near my home town. This man had taste, I could give him that. I felt along the stone bricks for any give. Solidly built, no rotting portions what so ever. This man either had a very uptight personality or a wife. I tended to lean towards the later, though no doubt his bed was a favorite stop of the puttane. Naughty, naughty Turk. I slid to the back of the house and gently lifted the latch to the service door, holding my breath. There was a small clink that reverberated through the long empty hallways. I sighed in relief and moved through the door way, my skirts swishing lightly as I made my way down the hall. A servant lay across the door, attended by two dogs to looked at me with big glowing eyes. They didn't bark, just growled quietly. I took out my pocket handkerchief and dropped it inches from the animals. Their ears perked up and they hurriedly sniffed the kerchief, only to fall down seconds later wiht a dull thud. Rabbit's blood and chloroform, worked every time. I picked up the scrap of cloth once again and laid it on the face of the servant, leaving a small kiss on his cheek. He wouldn't be moving for a long while. The hall way was dark, but I knew my way around. Every thief was expected to know their target inside and out, no exceptions. You didn't get to become Mezzzo by sitting on your duff in a bar and bragging about your exploits. That only got you a short drop and a quick stop. I came to the bottom of the servants' staircase and smiled. The floor boards were as new as the ones around the window. I tested the bottom one. No creaks, grazie a Dio sopra! I stole up them quickly, alighting on the top stoop in a matter of seconds. The house was large but empty, there being no children and few servants. Such a rich wine merchant, I thought, moving deftly to the handle of the master bedroom, such a waste of a life. I stole into the shadows and watched for any sign of movement from the large ornate bed in the center of the room. No sound. I made my way to the box by the bed side, opening the clasp and snatching the contents out in one fluid motion. That was when I saw the shadow steal across the window. A shadow I would know anywhere. I should've made myself invisible, it would've been easier for us both, but something told me to stay where I was. He came through the window. Not breaking it, just resting his feet gently in the cracks of the stone and pulling it open with his finger tips. Then he would swing in and alight on the floor with no more sound than a mouse sneezing. His hood was always pulled down over his eyes and his knife always stuck out a quarter of a inch from the base of his sleeve. He moved towards the bed, his intention clear enough, and then he noticed me. “Shadow?” He mouthed. I blinked in reply. His eyes motioned me to the window, and I slipped quietly out and down the rope he had left for me. I always wondered if he knew I was going to follow him or the rope was just a courtesy to tell others to stay out. I hit the ground running, but I never got myself far enough away. I always heard the scream of the wife right before he killed her. Always. I turned and plastered myself against the wall, breathing hard and trying to melt into the shadows. I let my hand move to the tattoo on my arm. That was where I'd gotten my name, the shadows. They had christened me once before, but the second was in blood. This name was the name they all knew me by. All but two. I turned around and flicked out my thin rapier like knife, cutting a large heart on his wanted poster. I hastily drew an ornate “E' in the center and then vanished into the night. When he came by later to tear them down he would see it. I never knew if he smiled, but he would always hesitate before shredding those ones. I turned to vanish into the trap door below my little tavern on the edge of the river. That was when a hand caught me by the shoulder and spun me around to face him. I'd known it was his before I saw his face. The cloak was the same. And I knew what he was going to do. I stood still, completely still, just breathing. Warmth shot through my body as his fingers, still sticky with the fresh blood of his last kill, touched my neck. He grabbed the front of my shirt and quietly unlaced my bodice, exposing the only secret I had left. He gazed the tattoo a long time before shoving me away. He didn't say anything for a long time. When he finally spoke his voice sounded half strangled. “Goodnight, Essa.” He said, and then vanished down the street, leaving me alone with the mocking stars glaring down at me and my longest secret.

Rembrandt came to cook pancakes at 7:36 AM on the third Wednesday of every month. He entered the File household by climbing through the window of the second floor bathroom, which was always locked. The File family had tried giving Rembrandt a key to the front door many times, but he still insisted on scaling the old pine tree outside of the bathroom and using a coat hanger to unlock the window. Once he entered, he always slipped on the purple shag area rug in front of the toilet, then bashed his hand off of the toilet paper roll holder, swore under his breath three times, and made his way down the stairs by way of the banister to start the Jiffy Mix before Dorthea File woke up. Dorthea had made it a point to lock the bathroom window on the third Tuesday of every month.

In truth, the File family had no real reason to lock any of the windows on the second floor, but the bathroom window remained locked for Rembrandt’s entertainment.

Dorthea could not remember a third Wednesday when Rembrandt had not been in their kitchen, sitting on the counter, squinting at a the back of the Jiffy box (because he refused to wear his glasses on days that were not Mondays). He always set the blue mason jar that Dothea liked to drink her coffee out of on the counter, far enough away from the edge so he would not knock it over. However, he had no idea how to make coffee, even though he had been shown several times, so he settled for setting out the bag of coffee and the filters for Dorthea to deal with when she woke up. In the seven years that the File family had been living next door to Rembrandt, Dorthea had not told him that she woke up at 6:30 AM and always had a cup of coffee before he arrived, and she did not believe she would let him in on this secret until they had been neighbors for ten years, ten being a nice even number to change their routine, even if only ever so slightly.

Dorthea would start peanut butter toast for her mother before her passing. The third Wednesday after Mrs. File’s death she had still put the bread in the toaster and set a jar of crunchy peanut butter by the sink, butterknife balanced on the lid. She watched the numbers tick down slowly on the edge of the toaster, listening to Rembrandt mumble about pancake instructions that he should have had memorized by now. As soon as she had realized her mistake she pushed down the lever on the toaster, taking the scalding toast in her hand and tossing it out the window. It landed soundly under the birdfeeder, sending the blue jays scattering into the rose bushes. Although they looked up from their prospective morning routines, neither Mr. File nor Rembrandt thought it was wise to comment on this mistake at the time. Perhaps, they had thought, it would make a good, bittersweet joke for the twentieth anniversary of Mrs. File’s death. Although they were sure the joke would happen in private, and not on a third Wednesday.

Dorthea pulled her bedcovers tightly under her pillow, as was her third Wednesday routine, centering everything just so on her bed. She stepped back, observing the evenness of her sheets. A long crease ran diagonally from the left corner of her bed, arching into a lightning bolt shape as it reached the middle. Disgusted, she yanked on one corner of the sheet, causing the entire bedspread to rumple. She pulled on her cardigan, slamming the door behind her and clomping down the stairs, skipping every third step as she went. In the room down the hall, listening to the thunder of his daughter’s footsteps, Mr. File straightened the pile of papers on his dresser with his index finger.

The pile was no larger than it had been the morning before, and was no larger than it would be the morning after, although he had gone to bed with no papers on his desk. The top page, a single sheet of white paper with “CONFIDENTIAL” centered at the top, printed in twenty-four size Times New Roman font, shimmered in the orange light filtering through his curtains. The font seemed almost translucent, shifting between the English Alphabet into a more ancient form of writing, possibly Greek, although it was never present long enough to recognize before shifting back to English.

Mr. File pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, making sure to tuck the edges in under his shirt cuffs as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. He smiled at his reflection slightly. The crow's feet around his eyes had gotten deeper after his wife’s passing, but the same could be said for his laughter lines. His pure black eyes stared back at him as he scanned his chin for stray hairs. His razor had been getting quite dull as of late, and he would need to buy a new one soon to avoid the hassle of double checking his face every morning. The inspection completed to his satisfaction, he removed the top page of his stack of papers, scanning over the contents:

DEATH LIST

Jean Forester, 73, will be dead by 8:47 AM, the cat knocks bleach into her morning tea. Can be saved until later.

Robert Gazelle, 27, will be dead by 1:26 AM, he decides it is a good idea to try heroin. Saved until later.

Edward Forester, 75, will be dead by 11:47 PM, consumed by the death of his wife, Mr. Forester decides to take a long swim. Must be present for this.

Theodar File, 126, will be dead by [TIME REDACTED], [CAUSE REDACTED]. Duty of Death will shift to [NAME UNKNOWN]

Mr. File closed the list after scanning the first four names, resting his palms on his desk and breathing in deeply. He closed his eyes, letting the information sink in. After all, it was not every Wednesday that his name showed up on the Death File, and it was not every Wednesday that Rembrandt decided to attempt M&M pancakes.

Dorthea slid across the tile floor on her socks, pushing herself against the sink and looking up at Rembrandt. He was glaring at the back of the box, holding a measuring cup filled with too much milk up to the light.

“Boo,” she said, tilting her head. Rembrandt looked up from his measuring. “Hi,” he said, pouring most of the milk into the giant mixing bowl balanced on his knees. He swirled the quarter cup of milk left around the bottom of the cup before drinking it. “Can you grab the M&Ms from my backpack?” He pointed across the room, dropping the measuring cup in the sink. Dorthea slid across the kitchen, grabbing the backpack by the handle.

“Why didn’t you bring it with you when you started cooking?” Dorthea asked, plopping it down on the floor in front of him.

Rembrandt looked down at the backpack. “I didn’t need it then.” He set the bowl of batter on the counter. “Is Mr. File at work?” Dorthea shook her head. Rembrandt had known the nature of Mr. File’s job since the third time he had visited, and as such he knew that “work” was not as appropriate of a descriptor as “punishment” when it came to Theodar File’s day to day occupation. Dorthea appreciated his tact, however. It was one of the many reasons why they kept Rembrandt around, although she was not sure if they could ever get rid of him, really. “And miss pancakes?” Mr. File walked into the kitchen, adjusting his gloves. “Good Morning Rembrandt, Dorthea Rose.” He smiled. Dorthea slid over towards him, wrapping her father in a large hug. He smiled, pushing a strand of her hair out of her face.

“Morning, Sir,” Rembrandt responded, dumping half of the bag of M&Ms into the mixing bowl. He paused, looking up quickly. “Do you like M&Ms, Sir?”

Mr. File had told Rembrandt many times that Theodar was a fine name to use between friends, but Rembrandt insisted on addressing him as “Sir.” This was partially due to Rembrandt’s unique oddness, and partially because of Mr. File’s gloves. “I have yet to meet many people who do not like them, Rembrandt.” Mr. File took the bag of coffee and cracked it open, breathing in deeply. “And those few who do not are also not very fond of breakfast or happiness.”