The lights were out, and the darkness of her silhouette merged into the darkness and immersed her.  She could no longer see the other guests.  Esther shrank, hunched her wiry back, and hugged her scrawny body when the scratching sound began clawing the wall.  The protruding nose shook back and forth with the movement of her quivering head. She wanted the sound to cease at once.  Her teeth grinded each other. 

“Wha--?” her mouth let the small question escape from the silent cage of her mouth. 

The lights flicked on.  She looked around at the guests, “What. The [i]fuck[/i]. Is that!?” She heard one of the other guests exclaim in a loud voice.  Her head turned, and by the wall, a strike had been written. She felt her pupils widen and then shrink.

She reached for her knife, to prepare for protection…  As Esther’s spidery fingers reached inside the pocket of her corset, she remembered that she had placed the knife in the box at the beginning of her arrival. 

Her head slowly turned away from the scar on the wall to look at the other guests’ reactions. Her hand weakly touched her mask.  [i]The Fickle Robin.[/i]  Perhaps, that is how she should introduce herself—if approached.  Her fingers gently stroked the caricature, feeling the uniqueness of its build and decoration. She had picked it for its intricate details and her curiosity for birds. But perhaps, the masks meant something more… something personal about each guest.