Pages Stained Crimson - The Diary of Madame Red

PLEASE READ: The views and opinions expressed in this story are NOT a reflection my own. This is supposed to be Madame Red's diary, and I did my best to capture what I think would have been her point of view. There are sections that may appear prejudice, cruel, and transphobic. I felt that because of the time period, her social status, and circumstances these may be her feelings, and I wanted to portray these thoughts as accurately as possible. Again, this is not the way I feel. Also, because this is someone's memory, some of the conversations may not be entirely accurate.

August 8, 1888

How strange it is that I should find this diary tonight. I was not looking for it, nor had I even thought about its existence in years. I came in the study, exhausted in both body and soul, and all but collapsed in my husband's chair. Many nights I done this very thing because I can almost feel him this room, smell the smoke from his pipe, and hear the gentle sound of his voice. It's comforting even though I didn't love him. That sounds cruel, I suppose, but I've learned that marriages forged from love are a rarity. They are nothing more than the stuff of stories and fantasy. This was reality, and the reality was that he was a good man and he was kind to me. It was as much as any woman could have expected.

But am I even a woman now?

They ripped that part out of me and left me hollow inside. It wasn't just my womb, but they tore out my heart and some tiny piece of my soul. I had never wanted a child, but the moment I felt the stirring within my abdomen, I fell in love for only the second time in my life. I imagined holding my child, feeling it's warmth within my arms, as my husband and I did our best to create a happy home. That was all before. It was before my husband was killed. It was before my child was stolen from my body. It was before those butchers masquerading as doctors had left me as an empty shell whose womanly form was nothing more than a lie.

Her blood is still on my hands. It's staining the page as I write, but that is fitting. Let these pages be stained crimson with the blood of my victims. Perhaps it is foolish to write all of this down. It is a signed confession, and will surely be used to condemn me if it is every found, but I don't care. I am already damned. I used my skills to murder, and I think I'll do it again.

After all, I brought Death home with me.

August 9, 1888

The pale light of the morning brings a new day and what should be a new hope, but I feel none of that hope beating in my heart. Last night I found myself in the middle of a nightmare, but it's not fading away in the sun like most dreams. No, this nightmare is reality, and it isn't going away any time soon.

I am calmer now. As I looked over the words I scribbled upon the page last night, I saw they were clearly written by a madwoman. I am still mad, but now my mind is calm enough to explain what happened. I have no idea who I'm writing this for. It's not as if I want for these words to be read, and I need no real reminder. The memories of last night are seared into my brain, but still I want to explain. Maybe, I can figure out what led me to this place.

There has been so much tragedy. After I lost my dear husband, Elijah, and the child whom I never even got to hold, I soon lost everyone else I held dear; my sister, the man I loved, and their dear little son. Even my own womanhood was gone. It felt like I had lost everything, and I was alone in the world. I threw myself into my work and spent more time at the clinic was necessary. It was better than going home to those empty, silent halls inhabited by only ghosts and memories. It was better than thinking, feeling, and remembering.

I had managed to move past the pain a little until that woman came to see me. From her indecent dress to the cheap perfume I knew she was a harlot before she had even completely cleared the threshold, but I did my best to keep my face neutral. Even though all the decent citizens try to ignore that these whores even exist, everyone can see them standing on the corners and trying to lure honest men like filthy sirens. We turn our heads and hope they'll fade like away like a foul odour, but in truth they are more like a tumor growing on the face of this fair city.

Not a single one of these thoughts made it past my lips as I gestured for her to sit. She was still an attractive creature, so I'm sure she had a better choice in men than most. Her face was fair, all her teeth were still present, and the body was feminine and comely. It would only take a few years for her to look like an old hag. There were probably already diseases crawling about the recesses of her loins – all set to be passed on to men who would take it home to their innocent wives.

As I was considering this, I heard her say that she was pregnant but didn't want her baby. She said that she wanted me to "…cut it out of her," and my anger flared. I realized that this thing was still more of a woman than me! I wanted to stand up and demand for her to leave, but I didn't do that. I knew too many of the other doctors looked down on me for not being a man. Despite my education and experience, they thought of me as little more than a nurse. If I turned away any patient, even one as vile and repulsive as this one, this was just give them another reason to think of me as less than a doctor. In a voice I barely recognized, I agreed to do the procedure.

Withholding all emotions, I managed to perform the abortion with relative ease. As I washed the blood from my hands later, all I could think of was how this should be her blood. The child had been innocent. The wench was far from it. My mind kept repeating the phrase, "She should die. She should die. She should die," and my heart joined in the rhythm like some sort of primitive drum. Even before she had left, I had already decided.

She was going to die.

I stayed late at the clinic, just as I usually do, and I waited until the halls fell quiet. I slipped out into the night, wishing I had worn more black for a change so that I had blended in better with the dark night. No one saw me. No one wanted to see me as I made my way towards the address this woman, Martha, had given me. I only hoped that it wasn't fake.

As I neared my destination, I saw that she had just finished entertaining some gentleman who was slinking off into the night like an embarrassed dog. With steady footfalls, I approached, and she turned to look in my direction. When she recognized me, there was no fear on her face, but that all changed when I pulled out a knife and rushed towards her like a rabid animal.

I felt nothing as I cut and slashed. I only wanted to silence the screams from that filthy, nasty mouth. I stabbed and stabbed, trying to kill not only her but also the pain that had made my heart hang heavily in my chest like a rock. I was exhausted by the time I finally quit and the knife fell to the ground with a metallic clang.

Suddenly I heard a voice from above me making some comment about what I had just done. Looking up, I saw a man on a nearby roof, and even at this distance I could see his hair streaming out behind him like a banner in the wind. It was red like my own. Crimson like the blood I had just spilled.

He leapt from the roof down to where I was standing with ease, and I realized that he wasn't human. There was a strange delight on his face as he surveyed my handiwork, but I felt no fear. I was rather devoid of emotions after committing murder. "You really did quite a job," he said, "Human women are so odd most of the time. When they kill, they often choose poison – and that usually leads to a disgusting, unsatisfying death. But you are different aren't you?" He laughed softly. "When I saw that a woman was going to stab someone to death, I just had to check it out. I must say that I was pleasantly surprised when I saw you."

"Who…What are you?" I asked tonelessly.

He turned towards me and smiled and I saw the moonlight flash on his dangerously sharp teeth. "As for the who, my name is Grell Sutcliff," he announced in a grand tone, "and as for the what, I'm a grim reaper." His smile grew, those teeth giving him a predatory look, before he turned and looked again at the body. "Why did you kill her?"

"She killed her baby," I replied, "before it was born, and I didn't think it was fair. I can't have children. Why should someone who doesn't even want a baby be able to have one when I can't? The doctors cut out my uterus, but this woman was still intact. I had to change that." I hadn't meant to tell him so much, but the words seemed to pour out of me. My voice was still without emotion, but a single tear escaped my eye.

With a smile, he walked over to me and draped his arm about my shoulders in a most inappropriate way. His teeth were still very frightening to look at, but overall he was beautiful to look at. I couldn't help but wonder if all grim reapers looked like him because I had never thought that death could be so pleasant to look at.

"I understand, my dear Ann," he said softly, "You see, I also can't have children because I have a male body. It's hard on women like us."

Women? I found this odd, but decided to ask another question instead. "How did you know my name?"

"It was listed beside this woman's death," he answered, "Martha Tabram was to die from blood loss caused by multiple slashes and stabs inflicted by Angelina Dalles. You are Angelina aren't you?"

"Yes," I said, "But I go by Madame Red most of the time."

"Oh that's splendid!" he cried, his strangely beautiful eyes lighting up. He removed his arm and stepped back over to the body. It was then that I noticed there was a strange device with a blade of sorts in his left hand. "Excuse me, Madame," he said, "but I have a job to do. This shouldn't take long." Without warning, the machine in his hand suddenly roared and he plunged it into the woman's chest. It looked so brutal that I winced despite the fact I knew that she couldn't feel anything. After a few minutes he stepped back and it was obvious he was looking at something, but I didn't ask him what exactly. I thought about leaving, but I stopped and waited for him to finish his task.

Finally he stood up and mumbled something about no special remarks as he stamped something in a book that had appeared out of nowhere just as his weapon hand. Without another movement of his arms, I saw that his arms were free once more. "You know," he said, "You really should have cut out her uterus. She never deserved it."

I managed a smile. Although I knew I should have been scared, I felt oddly comfortable in this nasty alley talking to a grim reaper after murdering a woman. "Maybe I will next time."

"Next time?" His eyes lit up again as his mouth curved into a dangerous smile. Never could I have imagined a creature who was the embodiment of death to look so alive. "Will there be a next time, Madame Red?"

"She wasn't the only woman to want that particular procedure," I stated, "Perhaps they should all be punished."

"They do," he agreed quickly, "They take for granted what we would quite literally kill for." He grabbed my hands and looked down into my eyes. "Let me help," he offered.

"Yes," I agreed readily, "It is only right." In truth, I knew he was too dangerous to deny, but I did think his help could prove most beneficial.

I think I hear Grell now, so I will stop this rather lengthy entry here. Hopefully, I will be able to continue soon.

Note: Jack the Ripper buffs will notice that this murder is one of those that was committed during the right time period but isn't attributed to Jack the Ripper. I thought that since this is Madame Red's first murder, she hadn't developed her signature 'style' just yet.