I find a copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet on my pillow when I come back to my room one day. Monster has gone off somewhere, I know that much; the house staff always seems so much more relaxed when he’s not around.

The red leather-bound volume is small, the pages dog-eared, notes scribbled in the margins in some unknown language. It’s obviously a well-loved copy.

It’s also obviously very much a gift from Monster. Inside the front cover, there is a note scrawled under the title.

Fiore —

Enjoy this play, as I know you will. Pay special attention to the parts with Ophelia… she went mad after forsaking the affections of Hamlet, as I’m sure you know.

That’s all that his note says, but I get what he’s implying. In our situation, I’m Ophelia and he’s Hamlet. But surprisingly, given that I love books so much, I haven’t really read the play yet.

Spreading out on my bed, lying on my stomach, I change that with a quickness. After reading through the play once very quickly to get the gist, I settle in for a second and third reading. These I take my time with, turning the pages slowly, trying to make out the margin notes.

After the third read-through, I close the play’s leather binding, full of thoughts. About the play in general, sure.

But specifically, about Ophelia and her portrayal. It hardly seems fair that she should be the one to die when all the men around her are pulling the puppet strings, making up her actions before she goes insane. That stands out to me most, among all my feelings about her.

I read Monster’s note again. The fact that he sees Hamlet as the slighted party doesn’t really surprise me. After all, Monster did have me kidnapped and brought here from the US.

There is probably something wrong with Monster, I realize. You would think that I would’ve known that all along, but for some reason, it comes to me as a surprise. It makes me wonder about what Monster’s origins were like.

After all, something had to have shaped his warped worldview. I know he has two brothers. I know he is Middle Eastern.

But I know next to nothing else about him. That fact makes me a little sad for him if I’m honest.

Carefully putting the play aside, I pad over to the window seat. Sitting curled up with my arms wrapped around my knees, I wonder how to change that. I mean, it’s not exactly easy to get information from Monster about himself. And the staff has proved time and time again to be unwilling and unhelpful in any matter.

So, what, then?

I try to think about the ways I’ve gotten information about him before. He’s told me a few things. I’ve inferred a few more.

Then a lightbulb goes on. The secret passageway that I used to sneak into his room. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.

Rubbing my palms on my knees, I look out the window onto the cherry blossoms. Thinking of the passageway, of all that I was able to learn last time in only a matter of minutes, I’m excited by the idea. And I know that he won’t interrupt me this time because he’s gone.

There’s no time like the present to snoop through Monster’s room. Standing up, I head out of my room and around a few corners. No one stops me up here; the maids avoid this entire floor like the plague.

Arriving in what I think of as Monster’s wing, I head into the empty library, my heart beating faster already. Heading to the bookshelf on the wall, I run my fingers around the seams, feeling for the latch. I trigger it, hearing the gears within the wall start clanking and grinding…

And then the wall opens a few inches for me. I’m so excited, I have to bite my lip to keep from squealing.

Pushing the door open with all my might, I tiptoe inside. At first, the passage is dark and dank, the floors untrod since the last time I was here. The air is stale and makes me want to sneeze.

As I venture further into the coolness of the hallway, I remember that there is a pile of books on the floor that I almost tripped over last time. Sweeping my feet out in front of myself in arcs and shuffling along, I am able to find the pile of books, toppled sideways from the last time I collided with them.

Skirting around the pile, I put my hands out, feeling my way to the other door. I find the broad handle and pull on it. There is the tiniest tug back, and then the grinding and whirring of gears.

The door opens a couple of inches. I push forward eagerly, forgetting my earlier hesitance. The room is exactly the same as it was the last time I was here. It’s all done in black, which seems fitting.

There is a window with a seat built into it, the same as there is in my room. There’s a big bed draped in black silk, and a set of bedside tables. A door leading to Monster’s bathroom, a sleek black cabinet for clothing storage, and a plain wooden bookshelf.

This time, though, I take my time. I feel the silk of the sheets on Monster’s bed, crushing them against my leg. I sit in the window seat and look out over the broad front yard. It makes a kind of sense now how Monster spotted us Sin and me quickly when we tried to escape.

Getting extra nosy, I look into his bathroom, at his personal effects he keeps there. A razor with wicked-looking blades, a fancy shaving brush, a comb. Toothpaste and a toothbrush. I pick up his aftershave and hold it to my nose. The scent of his aftershave is very woodsy and clean, cedar, wood smoke, and lemon.

It makes me think of his neck. I can picture myself smelling his scent on his collar. On more than one occasion he must have come straight to me after he showered and shaved.

The bathroom has been recently cleaned, and there are no traces left of whatever shampoo he uses in the clawfoot tub. There is a little wedge of his soap left in a dish, though.

I pick it up and smell it, admiring the smooth ivory color. It’s probably nothing fancy, but the smell of the soap, and knowing that he used it… I can’t keep myself from breaking off a bit.

He’ll never miss it. Besides, if I ever get caught, this will be the least of my concerns.

Carrying the little bit of soap out into his bedroom, I turn to his bed once more. Setting the soap down, I notice that the picture of Monster and the girl is no longer on his bedside table. Nor is it in the bedside drawer when I open it.

That gives me pause. That picture didn’t just disappear on its own. But what does it being gone mean?

Heading over to the other side of the bed, I slide open the drawer on the other bedside table. I find a container of lubricant, a photo of me taken while I was obviously asleep… and the same little slip of satin that I recognize all too well.

Monster has the panties I was wearing when I was brought here, right next to some lube in his bedside table. And the picture of me… mouth slightly open, eyes closed, face relaxed…

If these things belonged to anyone else, I would be surprised. Shocked, even.

But for some reason, nothing really shocks me where Monster is concerned. I’ve just seen too much to even be more than mildly bothered by the contents of the drawer.

So, Monster’s a pervert who violates my privacy. There’s nothing new in that piece of information, is there?

As I put it all back inside and start closing the drawer, something catches my eye. A single silken thread, as black as the sheets, dangles precariously from the drawer.

I know this trick all too well, as it’s one I set up many times. When I was younger, I would leave single strands of my hair in my diary or in drawers, to catch interlopers. More often than not, when my clumsy brothers thought they were being sly looting through my panty drawer, I would catch them that way.

Monster has set a trap. For some reason, he’s worried about having his privacy invaded when he’s not here. On one hand, I can imagine that if there were anything to be kept private in this room, it would be his drawer full of masturbation material. On the other, the bedroom is in a mansion full of maids who fear him and guards who follow him.

If any place in the world is safe from intruders, it’s in here. Then again, I am actively snooping through his stuff, so, maybe he’s right to be worried about it.

I try to wedge the strand back in the drawer as best I can, but there’s no doubt that I got it wrong. There are a thousand ways that Monster could’ve arranged the thread to hang in the drawer. It’s basically hopeless.

Biting my lip, I turn and pick up the bit of soap from the bed. I’m ready to tiptoe back to the secret passageway when the bookshelf catches my eye.

Drawn like a magnet, I wander over to it. I pull out a copy of The Great Gatsby, finding the same scribbles in this book as in the copy of Hamlet I was gifted. They are still illegible, still in what I presume is Greek.

All the same, they are comforting to me in some way. At least Monster is consistent in his madness.

Putting Gatsby back, I scan the shelves for something surprising or out of place. Something that will tell me about Monster. After all, that is what I came here to find.

After pulling out a few titles and shaking the pages, I hit pay dirt in the oldest looking book on the shelves. Its title is obscured by age and wear, its pages yellowed and tattered.

But the really good stuff comes when I try to shake out its pages. A big stack of photos falls out, looking like they’re mostly from the late seventies and early eighties. I pick them up off the ground, immediately struck by the first photo.

Three boys, all skinny and tanned and wearing rags. It’s obvious right away which one is Monster. He stares into the camera like he could get a piece of your soul that way if he tried hard enough.

I’m familiar with that exact stare. Quite familiar.

That stare of his still gives me a little chill, even though it is coming from at least twenty or twenty-five years in the past.

I flip to the back, where their names are printed very neatly. I can’t make out the rest, but I can read the names: Dryas, Arsen, Damen.

My chill comes back, needling me with cold, spiny fingers. Damen, I’ve met; he almost raped me.

That leaves Dryas and Arsen. I sound the names out. Dry-az. Ahr-sen.

Neither of them really seems right for the man I know only as Monster. Cocking my head with a sigh, I turn to the next photo.

It’s a photo of Monster and a little girl on a street corner, laughing about something. They have that ecstatic look that you can only have when you’re really young and really happy. On the back is written Arsen y Diana.

So, his name is Arsen, then. My Monster has a name.

I hear a noise, somewhere far off. It’s enough to make me shove the photos back in the book, put the book on the shelf, and scurry to the hidden door. I almost close the door, then I remember the bit of soap that I left on the bookshelf.

Sprinting to grab it and rushing back, I finally manage to close the passageway behind me. I’m not even sure what it was I heard, but better safe than sorry.

Clutching my stolen fragment of soap, Monster’s given name on my lips, I hurry out of the passage altogether.