Page 33 of Rock Paper Scissors
Thank you for a very memorable anniversary this year, one I certainly won’t forget. Five years. Where did it go? So many memories, mostly happy ones, and I’m looking forward to making more with you in the future. I suspect everyone has a Most Important Person. I am yours and you are mine. Now and forever.
Your wife
xx
ROBIN
Robin sits perfectly still, hiding in a cold, dark corner of the chapel, until the visitors are all back upstairs again. The man came downtwice, and she almost got caught. She wonders if he would recognize her at all now. Regardless of his face blindness, she fears she must have changed beyond all recognition since they last met.
When Robin let herself inside more than an hour ago, she thought they’d gone to bed for the night, and had to hide when she heard him coming down the old, wooden spiral staircase. He somehow managed to avoid all the creakiest steps. Luckily, the lounge—which she always thought was more of a library with sofas—had plenty of dark spaces, and the bookcases provided ample cover until she could see who it was. After that she let herself into the secret room. Secrets are only secrets for the people who don’t know them yet. They can morph into lies when shared, and like caterpillars turning into butterflies, beautiful lies can fly far, far away. There is nothing Robin doesn’t know about this old chapel: she used to live here.
She could still live here now if she wanted, but chooses not to.
Robin doesn’t like being inside the place any longer thannecessary these days. She always has to summon a colossal amount of courage to step inside those old chapel doors, and on the rare occasions when doing so can’t be avoided, she does what she needs to do as quickly as possible before getting out again. The visitors would want to get out too if they knew the truth about where they were staying, but people see what they want to see.
The secret room is tucked behind the library and Robin hates this part of the chapel the most. It’s easy enough to find behind the bookcase—if you know where to look—but you have to use your eyes. Most people go through life with their eyes shut. And books are good at hiding all kinds of things, especially closed books, just like closed people.
Some memories are claustrophobic, and the variety this room invokes always smother her, making it hard to breathe. Robin stays as still as possible, studying the parquet floor in the secret room as if it were a puzzle she might be able to solve, trying not to look at anything that will remind her of a past she would rather forget. But memories don’t take orders; they come and go as they please.
The moon is full and bright tonight. It shines through the stained-glass windows casting a series of patterns that seem strange and unfamiliar. The sight of her own shadow on the wall catches her eye, and it makes her feel small. Even her shadow looks sad. Robin doesn’t mean to make a fist, but when she sees her silhouette do the same, she holds her hand higher, changing the shape of her fingers. First a rock. Then flat, like paper. Then she makes a cutting motion, like scissors, and smiles.
When she is sure it is safe to do so, Robin stands to leave. She freezes when she thinks she sees someone, but it is only her own reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The sight shocks her: she almost didn’t recognize herself. There are no mirrors back in her little cottage. The woman in the mirror here, staring back at her in the secret room looks so old, and her pale skin is so white she could be mistaken for a ghost.
Robin reaches inside her pocket for the key to lock the secret room behind her, but her fingers find something else instead, providing her with a small wave of much needed comfort: her favorite red lipstick. It’s worn down to a flattened stump. She remembers the first time she used it: it rained that night and she got badly hurt. But it reinforced the importance of not trusting anyone except herself.
The best lessons are often the ones we don’t realize we’re being taught.
Robin applies a tiny bit of lipstick—wanting to save what is left for as long as possible—then admires her new reflection in the mirror. She smiles again but it doesn’t take, her mouth soon turning down at the edges. Still, it’s an improvement, and it gives her the courage to do what she came here to do.
The visitors didn’tlookhappy when they arrived, or when she watched them through the window. As she lurked downstairs, running her fingers along the spines of the books in the lounge that is more like a library, she noted that the visitors didn’tsoundhappy either. She listened to them as they talked in the bedroom upstairs. Their voices carried, and their words seemed to bounce from the double-height vaulted ceiling up above straight down into her ears.
It seems strange to her that the visitors really thought they could stay here for free. Only fools believe in something for nothing. She had to suppress a laugh when she heard them agreeing to leave in the morning. But her amusement soon turned into anger. That’s the biggest problem with people nowadays: they don’t appreciate what theyhave, they always want more. They don’t want toworkfor it. They don’t want toearnit. And they bitch and moan like spoiled brats when they don’t get their own way. Too many people think the world owes them something, and blame others for their own poor life choices. And everyone thinks they can just run away if things don’t go according to their plans.
That won’t be happening here.
The visitors cansaywhat they like, they can even choose to believe it if that helps them sleep when they lay their heads back down on her pillows. The stormoutsidemight have stopped—for now—but nobody is leaving here tomorrow morning. After what she has already seen and heard, Robin is fairly sure that at least one of them will never leave this place again.
AMELIA
It’s still dark outside, but I shake Adam awake.
“Bob’s gone. I can’t find him!”
I watch impatiently as my husband rubs the sleep from his eyes, blinks into the darkness, and peers around the bedroom. Itsmellsas though we are in a chapel now. That musty scent of old Bibles and blind faith. The only source of light is the flame from the candlestick I’m holding, and it takes Adam a while to remember where we are. It’s as cold in here as I suspect it is outside now thanks to the complete loss of power overnight, and he instinctively pulls the bedcovers around himself.
I pull them back off. “Did you hear me? Bob is missing!”
“He was sleeping out on the landing,” Adam says, suppressing a yawn.
“Well, he isn’t there now.”
“Maybe he went downstairs—”
“He isn’t there either! I searched the whole place, he’s not here!”
Now Adam looks worried.
He is finally hearing what I am saying. The unfamiliar concern on his face makes me feel worse—I’mthe one who worries, nothim. When I am most anxious, he always remains calm. We balance each other’s emotions, that’s how our marriage works. Or used to.
