Evil comes in many forms but for some there are none more evil than the Rat. The Rat is a human woman, albeit under severe contest by the associates of the Darwin trust, whose nose pushes outward from her face, a slight hooked, crookedness to it, made ever more noticeable by the twitching and quivering of it as she scents new blood and young souls to be devoured within her labyrinthine cavern. Every few months she’ll crawl from her lair unexpectedly, creeping through her red-carpeted labyrinth; the blood, sweat and tears of past and current serves ground in to the floors beneath her padded, mock-regaled feet.

The Rat is the countess of her labyrinth, the unquestioned ruler of that hell hole. Dare to cross her and you will most certainly be faced with the wrath of this gaunt, animalised witch. When enraged, her eyes launch out from her skull, piercing and unblinking: a thunderous grey, brimming with malice. Her thin, bloodless lips pulled back in a snarl over her yellowed teeth. Notice the loose skin about her throat tighten over her gullet as she inhales for the mightiest blast of hot air imaginable: not quite fire, more indescribable hatred combined with a limitless stupidity; an attempt to infect the souls of the young and defenceless with her sour demeanour. This creature preys on young adults, in the prime of life, scavenging good will and frivolity from them, siphoning it off as a parasite does blood, clinging to that youth as her body continues to wither with the passing of many, many winters.

Only the strong survive beyond those walls. The strong, perhaps the unfortunates in this case. The detained. The imprisoned. Indeterminable spans of time passing by behind those despairing walls, working, forever working, to please her Majesty. Anyone lucky enough to attain five minutes to themselves for water, sustenance or simple respite from the punishing regime is lucky indeed.

Perhaps the most unnerving and uncomfortable aspect of that place is the shell of a man at her side. If man, he can be called anymore. More animal-slave than man. He lopes beside her; at a shuffling gate, his left foot dragging behind, stooped forward after the countless barrages of abuse. His stoop giving the impression of a spine removed, collected, forfeit to that woeful woman. Always looking for acceptance and praise, rarely receiving any, the cry of ‘I’ll fix it’ often travels the length of those twisted corridors. Poor, simple fellow. How he fathered those beastly children of hers will be forever a mystery.