Perhaps it was the weather. The day had been unseasonably warm, and now that the sun was retiring at last the entire city slumbered uneasily, stirring restlessly like a man plagued by dark dreams. The heavy air made cautious men imprudent; its influence drove sane men to caprice. Was it any wonder then that Sweeney Todd, who could hardly be called a sane man, was not immune to the touch of heat's fevered fingers?
Whatever the cause, there was little doubt that the barber was not his normally unflappable self. He reflected on this as he stared at the cold wood of the floor, scrubbing away the blood spattered upon it. It seemed he had been in a fury from the moment he woke this morning, enraged perhaps by the aftertaste of some nightmare whose details he couldn't recall. He wanted desperately to destroy something, to do something violent, anything that might unburden him of this corrosive passion that clawed so painfully at his chest. He had shouted at the boy Toby over some trifle, and then proceeded to slice open three customers, one after the other. There was the bright release of silver and crimson, the gratifying yield of the flesh beneath his hand, and for a few brief moments he would feel satisfied. Then the image of the Judge would swim sickeningly before him, and his anger would flare up again, redoubled. After the fourth kill of the day Mrs. Lovett had come up to tell him that she had quite enough meat, thank you, and he had responded- rather more forcefully than necessary- that she would just have to bake faster. It had been an exhausting day, and the stifling humidity did nothing to cool his temper.
And now this, he thought, pushing the sponge savagely across the sullied floor. He had been servicing what he had decided was to be the last customer of the day; it was growing dark out and he was growing weary. Just a quick snap of the wrist and this one would be neatly disposed of like all the rest. Dully, mechanically almost, he drew the blade across the man's throat.
Everything had happened rather quickly after that. Quite suddenly, a vision of Johanna- his Johanna- had risen unbidden before his mind's eye. She was beautiful, like her mother, with long wheat-golden hair and delicately pretty features. But her face was blackened and bruised and she lay on the filthy floor of a grim sepulcher of a building- a madhouse, he thought. Her beautiful eyes were screwed shut as she tossed unhappily, in the throes of some nightmare. The image wavered maddeningly before him, a mocking reminder of the hold that vile Judge still had over him and his family. The barber gave a strangled cry and his hand twitched involuntarily.
The blade slipped. The man in the chair took this opportunity to scream.
Sweeney clapped one hand over the man's mouth and used the other to slash at him with the razor, using his elbows to maneuver himself into a position to pin the struggling man down. In a few bloody minutes it was all over, leaving behind no permanent evidence other than a handful of frightened customers (for few people wanted hot pies on a day like this), and several dark stains on the floorboards. All the same, the messy encounter had left the shop sticky and red, and Mr. Todd in a fouler mood than ever. The untidiness of the thing was distasteful, somehow. Besides, he hated to be reminded that those soft, soft throats he carved with his razor belonged to creatures as alive as he.
Having mopped up the last drops of blood, he fairly collapsed as fatigue overtook him. Revenge...revenge... the word whispered through his veins and thrummed at his temples. How much nicer it would be to be nothing at all, he mused wistfully, than to be Sweeney Todd. But always, always the vengeance-lust coursed like fire through his being, dangling purpose before him and goading him to live. He leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, but tonight it seemed even this pale facsimile of death was to be denied him.