text: > look around
  Helena's Bedroom (on the bed)
  This is my room, at least for now. It is remarkably clean, the walls a warm off-white. The bed rests against the west wall, reflected in a portrait-sized mirror facing the foot of the bed. Right of the mirror, in the east wall, is an open door, and right of that is an imposing oak cupboard. A window in the north wall overlooks the bed.
  
  > look at the table
  It's completely bare. Not even a clock or a lamp to break up the surface.
  
  > Clean table
  (first getting off the bed)
  That would be pointless.
  
  > Search table
  Although the table is bare, I think I can see some scratches in the wood: on the north edge, there are 3 notches, on the east edge, there are 4 notches and on the south edge, there is 1 notch.
  
  > look at the scratches
  (the bedside table)
  It's completely bare. Not even a clock or a lamp to break up the surface.
  
  > Turn table
  Nothing obvious happens.
  
  > examine the gold key
  It's a mortice key, most likely fitting a door.
  
  > look at the keyring
  A metal keyring, with an intricately plaited decoration of thread and beads trailing from it. On the ring are Marissa's bedroom door key and a gold mortice key.
  
  > go to the east
  The carpeted hallway extends away to the north and south. In the west wall is a door leading to the guest bedroom, and in the east wall is the door to Marissa's bedroom.
  
  > go south
  (first trying to open the front door)
  This is hardly the time to abandon Marissa!
  
  > lock the front door
  (with the gold mortice key)
  I ensure the front door is securely locked. For Marissa's own protection.
  
  I lock the front door.
  
  > Go east
  (first unlocking Marissa's bedroom door with Marissa's bedroom door key, then opening Marissa's bedroom door)
  Marissa's Bedroom
  Marissa's bedroom is initially confusing to the eye; the walls are almost entirely covered in an eccentric display of unframed paintings and tiny mirrors in mismatched frames. Lace curtains drape over a window in the north wall, letting dappled light filter onto a white-framed bed. In the dimly-lit south side of the room is a bedside table, covered in a pale floral cloth and a reading lamp. A white wardrobe, far less intimidating than the one in the spare room, is here too. The door is to the west.
  
  Marissa is here. She weeps steadily into one hand.
  
  > examine Marissa
  She glances up from crying and meets my eyes for the briefest of moments, her gaze watery and fearful.
  
  > Y.
  Marissa looks at me with teary eyes, a startling red ringing the grey irises. I hesitate, sensing the likely gravity of this conversation. Should I talk to her now?
  [1] "Why are you crying?"
  
  > 1
  Marissa swallows and just stares.
  
  [1] "Is someone trying to hurt you? I might know who."
  
  > 1
  She looks disbelieving and glances around the room, as though looking for an exit.
  
  I follow her gaze across the dozens of tiny mirrors on the walls. In each one, I see a different angle of the face of the woman I killed. My pocket feels suddenly heavy and I slip my hand in there, sweatily clutching the handle of my knife.
  
  [1] "It's that woman, isn't it? The one you work for. Marissa, you deserve so much more. She came here today, you know. Just walked straight in the front door. I won't let her hurt you."
  [2] "I won't hurt you, Marissa."
  [3] "I know what it's like to be alone."
  
  > 1
  Marissa's words come out almost in a whisper, but they strike me as painfully as an open palm. "What are you doing, Helena? What do you want from me?"
  
  My consternation must show in my features. Marissa, apparently emboldened, says, "I think... W-what I think is that you've been trying to trap me here. In my own house." She takes a deep breath. "B-but I don't think you're capable of really hurting anyone other than yourself." She is visibly shaking. I might be, too.
  
  "Helena?"
  
  I pluck listlessly at the bandages on my arm. Damnably, I don't think she is wrong. She stares at me and I understand - completely, at last - that this has to end here.
  
  I try to speak but my tongue seems to have closed off my throat.
  I glance back at her one last time - that perfectly preserved girl - and start walking down the hallway. My eyes fall on the fist-shaped dent where I "knocked" on her bedroom door my second night here, the bathroom mirror, completely obscured by adhesive bandages, the once-white roses turned ruddy as they drink their vase of hair dye. I pass through the living room and glance briefly at the porcelain ornament smashed into pieces on the floor.
  
  Yes, everything she said about me was true.
  
  I open the front door.
  
  > repeat
  The available options are:
  
  [1] "It's that woman, isn't it? The one you work for. Marissa, you deserve so much more. She came here today, you know. Just walked straight in the front door. I won't let her hurt you."
  [2] "I won't hurt you, Marissa."
  [3] "I know what it's like to be alone."
  
  > 2
  We look at each other quietly. Marissa's face is soft and open. 'Impressionable' seems the fitting word, as though I could mould her features with a gesture. The edge of a sunset filters in across the bed, softly meshed with the shadow of the lace curtain.
  
  "I saw what you've written about me," I eventually confess. She looks afraid, lowering her eyelashes. "Sometimes," I explain, "fear can distort your perception of events. You needn't be afraid, though. Anything I have done is only to protect you. I'm here, now. You don't have to be alone anymore." She lifts her eyes to meet mine and slowly takes a breath, about to say something - but seems to choke on her words.
  
  I lean forward and embrace her gently. Her little frame, at first so tense, eventually softens in my arms. "What I dream of," she murmurs, "is a life of balance, of purity and serenity, devoid of trouble or depression." It sounds like a quote, but the sentiment is clear to me. I smile into her hair, holding her closer. She slumps into me, quiet and submissive.
  With me, she will be safe. And I know she will not stray from me again.
  
  > kill Marissa
  I shiver. No.
  
  > give the keyring to Marissa
  I think I'll keep that to myself.
  
  > Y.
  Marissa looks at me with teary eyes, a startling red ringing the grey irises. I hesitate, sensing the likely gravity of this conversation. Should I talk to her now?
  [1] "Why are you crying?"
  
  > 1
  Marissa swallows and just stares.
  
  [1] "Is someone trying to hurt you? I might know who."
  
  > 1
  She looks disbelieving and glances around the room, as though looking for an exit.
  
  I follow her gaze across the dozens of tiny mirrors on the walls. In each one, I see a different angle of the face of the woman I killed. My pocket feels suddenly heavy and I slip my hand in there, sweatily clutching the handle of my knife.
  
  [1] "It's that woman, isn't it? The one you work for. Marissa, you deserve so much more. She came here today, you know. Just walked straight in the front door. I won't let her hurt you."
  [2] "I won't hurt you, Marissa."
  [3] "I know what it's like to be alone."
  
  > 1
  She shifts away from me a little, sliding across the duvet, and I feel a pang of irritation.
  
  "I know there's something going on, Marissa. Please don't try to deceive me. Your tears are evidence enough." I brush her cheekbone gently with my thumb. She blinks and flinches. My right hand, still in my pocket, twitches.
  
  > press the space
  I hesitate, moistening my lips. "I'm sure you're being exploited. You..." She isn't looking at me. I catch her by the chin and force her eyes to meet mine. "You make yourself an easy target, all alone here." I continue. Her breathing is lightly audible. It rings in my ears like the ocean. "I don't think you understand what people are like. They can't possibly understand how to appreciate you."
  
  "What are you talking about." Her words fall flat; more of a statement than a question. It is obvious she knows exactly what I am talking about; the girl is addled by years of solitude. "But I am here to end that! Don't you see?" I smile, my heart almost leaping out my throat. She just stares.
  
  I lean forward to smooth out the tear-clumped tangles in her hair. Frustratingly, she edges back further. "There was a girl before, you know," I explain, "But she and I used to argue now and then."
  
  "Was there?" she asks. She is almost flat on the bed, now. I think I am leaning a little too heavily on her abdomen, but I feel I shouldn't draw away just yet. Her body is so warm against my hand. And there, she is crying again. Her eyes are wide. She looks shocked, but that will pass. "Just hush," I say, stroking her hair. "Hush." Her crying soon fades to silence.
  I curl up close to her, burying my face in her still-warm neck. I lie with her, long after it goes cold.