A Masked Game

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The cold air slapped Roger Raincomprix hard across the cheek as he stumbled out of the bar and into the deep mist of a new day. He'd spent the evening, once again, seated on a stool in one of Paris' best known dives; drinking away the memories of his old life.

Messing with his belt buckle, he pulled his trousers back together after taking a quick detour down an alleyway for a piss. The night was the same as the others. Long. Uneventful. Boring. Nothing like they used to be when he had his dream job; when he was more than just a borderline down and out.

Stumbling out the alleyway and into the haze of a summer morning in Paris, Roger continued to head in the direction of the park. Another night ending the same as all the others. A trip down memory lane where he would go and berate those that had put him here. The two people who others cheered — he despised.

Kicking a stone, he watched it bounce along the street. The early hours of the morning made an act of disorder into one of normality — nobody getting in harm's way; nobody around to point the finger at him.

The fog seemed to grow denser as he stumbled another few steps in the direction of the park, the street lamps glowing ominously in the thick, uncontrollable murk. He knew he was going the right way. His footsteps acted on muscle memory, rather than sight, and led him on the beat he'd taken so many times before.

Ten steps forward. Turn right. Cross in front of the 'Tom and Sabine Boulangerie', turn left and cross the road. Simple. Ordinary.

Memories of the past fogged his brain just as the early morning dew collided with the warm air. He could have still been someone if they hadn't meddled with him. Belittling him and making him seem nothing more than a glorified clown.

Every night — when he eventually closed his eyes — the red and black would collide in a mocking explosion voiding any sleep which was on the verge of commitment. So here he was again, leaving his bender to head towards the statue in the park; one he would scream and shout at until the cows came home — or, at least, until someone called the police.

He hadn't slept again. The ordeal was still too fresh; even if it had happened 10 years ago.

Smells emitted into the street from the bakery, the scent of fresh bread comforting him in his journey, guiding him in the right direction. He was nearing the park now... only a few more strides.

The outline of the gates came into his eye line, the bronze statue lying somewhere in the depths of the contained area. He fumbled in his pockets reaching for the pen he'd placed in there earlier. This would be the first time this month he'd violated the statue, his past efforts already non existent thanks to the quick reacting council members of Paris. It's a shame they didn't react so quickly to any other acts of social disorder.

Tripping over a rock, he cursed under his breath; feet slamming around to try and hold friction and keep him standing. He would never go down on his knees before them — never!

A few more steps and he reached the base. The thick marble presented the statue like a shrine of two undeserving gods. A shrine everyone thought they should bow down to — not him!

Taking the pen from his pocket, he flipped off the cap and looked up to where he intended to disfigure the bronze sculpture of Chat Noir's face. Ideas already in his head on what he was going to do. Placing his hands on the base, he hoisted himself up and onto the lower platform, only to come face-to-face with blonde hair.

"Hey! What are you doing up there?"

He attempted to carry on climbing the statue, intending to find out who was currently sleeping over Chat Noir's back. His steps stumbling slightly thanks to his late night intoxication.

"Are you awake?"

Roger repocketed the pen, allowing both hands free to continue his endeavour. The woman was wearing blue. Puffed shoulder sleeves, white waistband and pigtails. An umbrella was positioned over her head as though protecting her from any incoming rain showers.

"Listen, love, you should be heading home." He heaved himself up onto the main plinth, crawling mere centimetres from the woman. "It's late, well early," he laughed to himself, moving closer and peering over to her. "You should —"

He saw his reaction reflected in the shiny surface of the statue before he fully understood it. The alcohol burned his throat as it made its way back up and out his body, the lack of food turning his stomach inside out from the view.

Lying flat over Chat Noir's back was a young woman... a butterfly etched into her skin, and blood to soaking through the dress on her chest. Her eyes were wide and glassy. Lifeless.