Young Writers Society

I am still not sure exactly how it happened. How could I have made such a big mistake? They had given me an injector, but had not told me how much of my creation was in it. Had I held the trigger for too long? Was it really all my fault?

You are probably confused. I do not blame you, considering that I have given you no context or backstory. Sorry for that. I am simply very confused myself. Everything from that time, in my head, is so… barmy. I suppose, for your sake, I had best start from the beginning.

My name is Cheshire. Dr. M. Cheshire. If you are asking what my first name is, you are asking the wrong question. I was born on the 9th of January in the year 1820 to George and Lorelle Cheshire in the English village of Catshill. My mother was very sickly from the time I was born. It is a miracle that she lasted as long as she did.

My mother passed when I was nine years old. I still remember walking into the lounge and finding her sitting on her rocking chair. She had been knitting. I can only presume that she had passed painlessly.

Being a young boy, I panicked. I ran to my father, and told him to help her, but he knew it was too late. His knees gave way beneath him, and kneeling beside her, he began to weep. I am man enough now to admit that I had not a clue what to do. It was not very long before my father stood.

I tried to stop him when he got the rope, but I was too young. Too weak. The bastard left me behind, having been overwhelmed by his emotions. I cannot understand how anything could ever be that devastating.

I ended up in an orphanage for a time after that. It was there that I met a boy named Oliver Roarke. Mr. Roarke was a rather strange child, and that never changed even as he aged. He adored stray cats, just like myself, which is why we had met; both of us were trying to get the attention of an abandoned tabby cat. The cat ended up coming to me, which lead Mr. Roarke my way as well. He became a good friend, despite his issues, which included severe perception problems and bipolar disorder.

Despite his powerful distrust and hatred for others, for one reason or another Mr. Roarke liked me. Dare I say he may have even loved me, for there were a few times when he seemed to try moving in for a kiss on my lips. Sadly, I was and am forever unable to return the sentiment, though I did very much care for him. We would talk for hours on end. He may have been mentally unwell, but he sure could hold intelligent conversation.

I was 18 years of age, sitting outside at a table and talking with Mr. Roarke when I met a girl. She had skin of porcelain and hair of spun gold, but her eyes were that of the Devil’s. I’m not sure if I didn’t notice the evil in her soul, or if I just chose to ignore it, but my heart skipped a beat when hers met mine. I dare not approach her and break social conduct, but I did raise my hat at her. She smiled, and shortly thereafter approached the table I shared with Mr. Roarke, who looked livid.

“Hello,” She had begun in a dainty manner, “May I sit here?”

I stood up and took her hand to help her sit.

“Of course, Miss.” I responded.

She thanked me and sat across from Mr. Roarke. Mr. Roarke was now glaring at me instead of her, so I averted my eyes from him and sat beside the lady.

“May I ask your name, Miss?” I questioned lightly.

“Camille.” She answered.

“Your surname?” I asked.

“Ibbott.” She replied.

“I haven’t heard that surname ‘round these parts.” Mr. Roarke announced with a bitter tone. Have I mentioned that he did not like people?

“My family just moved here from Leeds.” Ms. Ibbott retorted with matching ferocity. “Now, may I ask your names, gentlemen?”

“I am known as Cheshire.” I answered her question.

“What is your given name, Mr. Cheshire?”

I froze up and stammered under Mr. Roarke’s hard stare.

“Well? Has a cat got your tongue, Mr. Cheshire?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I said.

“Hmm,” Ms. Ibbott hummed, “I shall find out your given name soon enough.”

Camille Ibbott remained very much in touch with me for the next year. When I was walking her home in the early evening of one day I had spent with her, she invited me inside.

“I am to spend the night alone, it seems, and I would like your company for a while longer.” She had told me. I obliged, not being one to deny a woman’s request. Her house was very nice. Not as nice as the mansion that had been passed down from my father to myself, but nice. Everything was neat and looked rather expensive.

“Come. Sit with me.” Ms. Ibbott said, breaking my attention from her home’s décor.

We sat and talked for a while. Ms. Ibbott was very much focused on drama and romance, so I cannot say I was that interested by her talk. After half an hour, I announced that I had to go.

“Why must you leave? Can you just stay?” Ms. Ibbott sweetly beckoned.

“I must go. I have someplace to be. In fact, I’ve already stayed much too long.” I answered. I chose not to mention that my next stop was at Mr. Roarke’s residence.

“Oh, pooh! At least let me walk you to the door, if you must go.”

I allowed her to walk with me, but she stepped ahead of me and blocked the door.

“Ms. Ibbott, I really must go.” I said.

“Hold on.” She said. “Come closer.”

There was a look in the lady’s eyes that I wasn’t all that familiar with at the time. It made me uneasy. Still, I leaned a bit closer.

Before I knew it, Ms. Ibbott’s lips were pressed against mine, and my heart had begun to race; not so much out of excitement, but rather because I was startled. She kissed me passionately over and over. It felt very wet and sounded ungraceful. I did not like it, even though I knew I should have. A first kiss is a kiss to cherish, but somehow I felt cheated.

It felt like an eternity had passed when Ms. Ibbott finally pulled back. She had not noticed that I had not been kissing back, or maybe she just had not cared, for she let me leave after that with flushed cheeks and a wide grin.

I stumbled to Mr. Roarke’s home. My face was flushed, of that I was certain, and I felt like everyone who saw me knew I had been kissed, as if it was written across my forehead. I considered simply not going to Mr. Roarke’s that night; if he knew Ms. Ibbott had kissed me, who knew how he would react? Even so, I still went to him.

“You look as though someone’s seen you in the nude.” He said to me after I entered his home. Mr. Roarke never was one for sugar coating the truth.

“I feel that way.” I answered. My voice was shaky. Not good.

“Nude?”

“You know what I meant.”

“What happened?” Asking me this, Mr. Roarke got very close to me. Strangely, I didn’t mind.

“I… Well… You remember Ms. Ibbott, correct?”

“I do, yes.”

“Well, she…”

Oliver gazed into my eyes. Was it love I saw for a moment?

“She kissed me.”

“She what?” There was a hiss of hatred in his tone, and I realized at that moment that he had been holding my left wrist, as with his words his grip tightened around it.

“I am unsure as to what to do.” I mumbled. “I was not expecting her to kiss me.”

“Don’t go back to her.” Mr. Roarke demanded. “Leave her be. Women are nothing but trouble, Mr. Cheshire.”

I shook my head gently. “Mr. Roarke, you simply want me all to yourself.”

“Can you blame me?” Mr. Roarke ran his gloved fingers over my cheekbone, prompting me to back up.

“I believe I’m going to retire for the night.”

“So soon? Will you call upon me tomorrow?”

“Perhaps.” With that, I wished Mr. Roarke goodnight and left his home. I needed to think, and his odd behaviour would be of no help to me.