Claudia Thatcher

The eyes opened to reveal bright green eyes. They looked frightened. The eyes flicked back and forth, examining the room around them with as little movement as possible. The room was very dark but for the star and moonlight shining through the open window. The entire room and everything in it was shades of grey—dark grey. It was a large room; a fireplace in one corner, a mirrored closet in the other, a door to some sort of outside balcony, a violin by one wall beside an arm chair beside a bookshelf, and a piano by the other wall. Arriving at the conclusion that the room was empty, she sat up.

“You’re awake, I see.”

Her eyes fell on the piano. The man sitting at it was so black and white himself that he blended right into the room. His skin was bone white, his hair was ebony black, and he was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and grey stripped tie. Her heart began to race as she looked at him more intently. He looked almost dead. His eyes seemed sunken, surrounded with dark rings, and his expression seemed blank. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound followed.

He stood and walked over to her. You’ve regained color, which is good of course.”

“Who are you?” she finally managed, barely a whisper.

“Victor Kinsey. I know it’s a bit redundant, but names are what they are.” He paused. Apparently her face expressed her confusion because he continued. “Victor means “victory” or “victorious,” and Kinsey means “victorious prince.” It’s a bit redundant. What is your name?”

She hesitated. She barely knew this man at all; however, judging from her memory, she owed this man her life. “Claudia Thatcher.”