Smiling to myself, I skipped up the cobblestone path to the large estate at which I lived. It was near dusk, colors streaked across the blurred gray sky. Father wanted me home by dark, and here I was.

I had been out in the market all day, scampering between men harking their wares and large, gossiping hoards of women wearing giant, brightly colored hoop skirts. I did this every Wednesday, provided I didn't have a lesson. I tried to spend all of my time outside of the house, for things did not bode well there.

I marched up the marble steps leading to the large, mahogany double doors. My grin faded as I observed it to be slightly ajar. Creaking open the entrance, I slipped into the foyer. The only noise was the thud of the door heavily swinging shut and the quiet sound of my own, quick heartbeat.

There were no maids bustling about in black and white, no clanking of pots and pans from the kitchen, not even the chiding voice of our butler, Smith.

This disturbed me.

"Mother? Father?" My voice echoed throughout the entire house. I checked the parlor, the dining hall, the drawing room, and the library, all devoid of people. Not a hair was out of place. The absence of life so greatly unnerved me, that I decided to check in forbidden territory.

Father's study.

Slinking down the hall on tiptoe, I neared the entrance to the study. Father told me that under no circumstance should I ever find myself inside. But panic was clouding my thoughts, slowly wrapping around my mind.

Finally, I reached the door.

It hung wide open on its copper colored hinges. As I gazed into the room through the open entryway, a scream built up in my chest, but lodged in my throat. I sank to the floor, still staring at the horrible sight before me.

Father's body was slung across his desk; the precious journals and field guides he held so dear were scattered across the floor.

A crimson stain was forming on the once stark white carpet. Father's body, his form was grotesque. It looked as though someone had simply taken a knife and run rampant across his torso. Long gashes ran done the entire length of his back, not only tearing through his expensive suit, but biting into his pale skin as well. His arms were bent at off angles, broken by someone with muscle.

But his face was the worst.

Someone, had taken a razor and butchered a wide, gruesome grim on Father's normally stoic face. Blood dripped from the torn veins, contributing to the puddle marring the rug.

My eyes met his still cold, even in the afterlife. I sat there, staring, as if waiting for him to react.

I couldn't look away.

I stayed there for what seemed like hours, until I notice the increasing heat of the typically frigid house. I staggered, shocked and dazed, into the grand hall, and came face-to-face with a new problem.

Flames rose, climbing up the burgundy walls. Portraits of ancestors burned along with the works of famous artists. The some blanketed the top floor, wrapping me in its toxic arms.

I coughed and sputtered; the thick black substance invading my lungs. Dropping to the floor, I crawled to the staircase. All hopes of getting out through the front door were dashed when I saw the base of the stairs engulfed in tongues of fire.

Moving as fast as I could, I crawled back to the study. To keep more smoke from entering I slammed the heavy door behind me, I rushed over to the beautiful, brightly colored stained-glass window.

When I realized it wouldn't open, panic welled up inside of me; I hurled a paper weight through it, scattering shards of iridescent glass everywhere.

I swiveled my head to look over my shoulder, taking a last glance at the room. Flames were eating their way into the study through the cracks and splits between the smooth white walls and the door.

I swallowed, climbed up onto the inner sill and swung my legs past one of largest spaces between the iron framing the glass picture had sat in. And I pushed myself out into the night air.

My hair billowed above my head in the freefall, and I thanked the Lord that I had chosen to wear men's clothes today instead of my incredibly uncomfortable skirts. The 15-foot drop never seemed to end as I waited.

And waited…

I landed in a flourishing rose bush. The thorns whipped across my skin, some piercing and breaking, others leaving long, jagged scratches on my face, arms, and legs. I climbed out of the thorny clump of flowers, dragging out strands of my tangled hair, leaving matted bits of bloodstained blonde wrapped around the stems.

I tried to walk, only succeeding in stumbling and falling into the chilled grass. I made an attempt to stand back up, but my knees failed me and I crashed into the lawn again.

Something was definitely sprained.

Wincing, I dragged myself across the ground, trying my best to get away from the burning building. My lungs burned, drinking in the cool, autumn air.

Just as I neared the cobblestone road, something – or someone – yanked me up from behind, pulling me up to my feet from the back of my tunic. Something cold pressed into my throat as a pressure squeezed around my shoulders. A scratchy burlap sack tightened above the cold spot. My hands were pulled behind me and tied, everything so fast. A deep, gruff voice sounded from behind me.

"Walk," it commanded.

I was paralyzed with fear; I couldn't move even if I wanted to. I was pushed roughly forward, the cold metallic object moved with me.

"I said, walk," the voice demanded again.

I stumbled, and then slowly began to limp. The cold, which I had figured to be a knife, never cut as it pressed lightly into my neck. My eyelids grew heavy after a while, my assailant, or assailants, moved silently. I vainly pondered what time it was. Without warning, my legs gave way beneath me and I collapsed, the knife slicing shallowly across my skin.

Darkness enveloped me as I closed my eyes and drifted into the depths of black.