The bitter hell of which was Mrs Lovett's meat pie emporium and her company was more ghastly as well as difficult to be within than trying to survive in a country ruled and roamed by the Devil's living servants, in human form. Torture was one thing, a tiny thing in fact. Whips, Chains and abuse were just a small amount of pure pain compared to the torture the barber had to suffer from the longing widowed baker. The constant knockings upon his barbershop door which echoed throughout the deathly room, tormented and brought the peril of knowing what was about to come, or the simple company of a humming woman in a loving day dream was enough to irritate him and cause his fingers to curl around to make fists to clench whilst his throat would often give a growl of anger which made his adams apple bobble with the vibrations caused; or worst of all, the longing passionate looks of need she tried to somewhat discreetly give him as though a hint, yet she should know. She does know. Only his precious Lucy could give him that. His Lucy...
Nellie Lovett was nothing but a weight to his shoulders. A maid in fact to him. A whore. Nothing more and undoubtedly he was only being nice when he used that word, which he used to describe the women which ventured London's lonely streets at night. Yet she still somewhat had the determination to get what she wanted from him, although most of the time he would ignore her requests of pleasure and if he did not ignore it, he would simply give a low grunt or sudden growl which would cause her to ump by being startled by the sudden firm response and eventually get the point of his refusal. To the demon Barber, her being so longing and needing of him was one of the most pathetic things he had seen in all of his lifetimes as both Benjamin Barker as well as Sweeney Todd.

He Spat on that.

She had shown herself as nothing but a whore by the time he had arrived in return to London, to Fleet Street, where she kindly, disgustingly took him in with open arms and allowed him without a penny's charge to have his own home within the tonsorial parolor above her meat pie emporium. Although he was thankful of that, he did hate the fact how she tried to touch him. Tried to smell his raven coloured, tangled hair with the bold streak embracing with the rest of his locks which noticeably needed to be washed, combed and overall tended to. Yet this woman did not care. He didn't understand her. His head was irritated and angry with her whenever she lurked into his presence. Whilst his body was just uncontrollable and if not for various rational thoughts popping into his head, he would kill her. If he didn't need her for his sinister deeds, that is.

Tapping fingers drummed against the cracked wooden windowsill of his barbershop, his eyes peering out at the industrial city that was London. The view from his barbershop window allowed him to be permitted into seeing almost everything. He could see St Pauls Cathedral and he could see the smoke that flamed from chimneys that rose to the sky and instantly disappeared within the heavens, for the angels to choke upon. Yes - he could see the passing people of this society, how they would hurry, dawdle and talk to each other all the while being as judgemental and as cruel inside their acnowledging minds as their company chose to be. They were disgusting. How naive they all seemed because they did not appear to realize that they were not loved nor liked but hated. All hated, and here Sweeney had to reside into almost acting like some sort of grand higher power because he was in knowledge of this. Like one of the Gods...or possibly like a puppet master that knew all and yet only the luckiest would know how life really was once they entered his barbershop for a nice..close..shave. His roaming eyes glanced around exhaustedly in his thoughtful, silent ways. Lack of slumber had caused his eyes to become darker by their shadows against his pale almost unhealthy complexion. Alas, he was disturbed by that sinister sound of his door opening: the bell ringing instinctively on cue as it always did with its partnership with the door. As though it was a conductor in an orchestra that held one of the most important parts to play, because it informed dear Todd the significant fact that someone was entering. His deeds on slitting less honourable throats would come into play. Sharply, the Barber turned on the heel of his dark almost dusty shoe, his eyes greeting the figure that stood there.
Disappointedly.