Midnight Murder

2. Bibbiti-Bobbiti-New

As I walk down the long hallway to Fifi's dressing room, I pass a floor-length mirror with a long sharp crack down its middle. The crack is there because the mirror had been broken on purpose to look unique and intriguing. Like we are.

The girls in this house would be called women outside of it. Though we come from a variety of countries, most of us have been trained from childhood to be anything our jobs could call for.

A silent killer.
A secretive seducer.
Or a seditious spy.

The Supreme Mother rules the roost here, and although England is the land of good manners, she is in no way hesitant to spill blood to get what she wants. She has trained the rest of us to act the same. Her favorite girls are of course her two biological daughters, Dru and Staje. They used to look like twins, but now they couldn't look more different.

Dru's arms are covered in black ink, depicting everything from skulls and butterflies to the faces of her favorite victims. Her hair is cut in a short mohawk, the tips dyed fluorescent green, and her makeup always consists of huge wings around her eyes and bright red lipstick. Her voice is deep, but cracks now and then because she is known to yell whenever her temper flares up. She is a brutal killer.

Staje's hair is red, and she loves to have it long and flowing behind her whenever she goes out for pleasure. Her style is nothing but frills and flounces, and she loves expensive jewelry. Her ears are often covered in various gems, and her arms are noise makers with the number of bracelets and chains she wears. She continually wears the look of a blushing bride, enhanced by a large amount of pink lipstick and rouge. Her lashes are forever darkened with mascara.

And then there's me.

I am in no consequence related to Staje and Dru (something I thank God for), but it is rumored that my father was a lover of their mother, and that is the only reason why she took me in.
Perhaps she thought fondly of him when she heard he had died in a gang raid.

As aforesaid, I am plain.

My undyed blonde hair is cut to frame my face in a short bob. The only makeup I ever wear is light mascara to accentuate my dark blue eyes, and I detest any sort of beaded jewelry. I have no tattoos or piercings, but that is because in my line of work, anything that is a trademark could be the thing that leaves you dead. It is easy to be a spy if you are quiet, obedient, and in no way flamboyant. Though I will not strike fear into your heart like Dru, or charm my way into your pocketbook like Staje, I have my own way of getting what I want.

My most frequent tactic is blackmail. This is the very reason why I have been untouched by any of the girls in the compound, including my supposed step-sisters. I have dirt on all of them, including several things that the Supreme Mother would just love to know.

As I come to the chestnut brown door at the end of the hall, I notice that it's open from the inside. I step into the doorway and my black boots softly tread on a blood-red carpet that starts at the threshold and floods into the rest of the big room.

I lean against the door frame, looking in.

Fifi is an old French woman, with olive skin that always looks lusciously tanned. If you were to look for her in a large crowd, you would be able to spot her quickly with her snow-white curly hair and big brown eyes. She loves to wear loads of necklaces carrying colorful stones, as well as various bracelets made of colorful thread. But don't let her godmother-like demeanor fool you.

Surrounded by racks full to overflowing with colorful cloth and dresses suspended from the ceiling as if symbolizing trees in a forest, Fifi sits with her back turned to me as she operates an ancient sowing machine with delicate, wrinkled fingers.

"Come in, cherie," she says, not even looking at me. She already knew who I was by listening to the pattern of my steps.

"Supreme Mother told me to present myself," I say stoically, taking another step into the room.

The dress Fifi wears is made of the richest azure blue silk, and it softly shifts in the air as she beckons me with an upraised hand, still remaining unturned from her work

"Wish to see it?" she says, her French accent mixing with a light British tone.

Slightly confused at what it is she wants me to look at, I walk over to her and fold my arms in a military-like stance, my leather jacket tightening around my arms.

Spread across the mahogany table is a light airy material, perhaps silk or chiffon. At first glance, the cloth is a shiny charcoal-black color, but my eyes widen when I see it shift into a soft sky blue as I step closer. I lean slightly backwards on my heels and the material returns to its original black.

"Ah, you see?" she asks proudly, her eyes even bigger behind her thick glasses.

I give a little laugh.

"Is this to be my disguise?"

She raises a thin French eyebrow.

"Ell, you are not going to fit in this time," she says, continuing to work her sowing machine while I look over her shoulder. This time I raise my eyebrow. Fifi only calls me by my last name when she's about to say something I most likely won't like.

"Why do I have the feeling you're going to make me do something I don't want to?"

Fifi looks directly into my eyes and smiles dryly.

"It's time for a makeover, Dere Ell."

"Shoot."

Although, if I'm being completely honest, that is not the word I said.