Destiny's Hand Slipped
1880
William stumbled and he was delayed a fraction of a minute. She went by with her companions, babbling about knights. He did not bump into them. She did not see him as he cried and clutched the paper. She did not follow him.
1888
Mother's front parlor is filled with light. Too much light. I took a book to read but I have already forgotten which one. As I watch shadows cross the window, it's as if my eyes have hardened, like they have been boiled. They won't blink. There is no rest in sleep with bright red dreams.
Did you ever have a feeling that you have been passed over, that you missed your chance?
It's this shell they call William. It was supposed to fall off, like a dry cocoon. But it's still here, rusted shut, trapping me inside.
There should be blood. That's what my dreams tell me.
I go out into the streets looking for it. Those nights the air is almost wet. Like something dark and cold waiting to swallow you.
When you round a corner, they come right into your arms. You walk down a dark street, and they will choose you. They ask for so little. A few coins. And they give so much. Not even they know how much they will give.
Destiny has pointed a finger. The girl takes you by the hand.
But she is the wrong girl! She is not the one who was meant to choose you, to change you! She is not destiny, she is just a whore. But there will be blood.
I'll take destiny as I see fit.
But it is not the same. It is not like destiny having you in her strong embrace. The feeling, the change, does not last. It washes out. In the end I am still William.
Mother caught me washing my shirt.
"That is not work meant for you," she scolded as she took it from me.
"It's because you were meant to be a surgeon," Mother says as she washes the blood from the sleeves.
Her hands are red. I turn away.
"It is a pity you could not tolerate the sight of blood. To have your delicate touch wasted on women such as those."
She is in her nightclothes. The door to her bedroom is open. I can see newspaper clippings on her writing desk. I can see my other name even from here.
"Maybe you could have removed this thing inside me that chokes me and will not let me sleep," she said of her consumption.
Her eyes are a little sunken and there are dark circles under them as she looks up. I smile at her in apology.
"But you have a poet's soul. You are filled with sensitivity and beauty."
She smiles back.
Jack is a good name. Simple, strong. Jack wields a knife without hesitation.
It's only busywork. Idle hands marking time until the end. It is of no real consequence.
Afterward I look in the mirror and I am unchanged.
The end
A/N: If anyone is still wondering what is going on, this came to me after watching From Hell.