This story is a translation of a French one I wrote a while ago, though I've added a great many things to this version. English is not my mother tongue and I couldn't thank my beta enough, ellymelly, who's been such a great help.
Please, drop me a few words to let me know what you think! Thank you.
November 10, 1888
Helen swiftly slipped into her room, shivering.
Winter was slowly descending over the city. A cold, biting wind swept across the streets from the first lights of dawn until late at night, announcing a harsh season with hundreds of cabs stuck in the snow, chocking the already crowded streets of London.
Helen went near the fireplace and knelt on the hearth rug. The dancing flames were licking the pieces of coal and for a moment she enjoyed the warmth, before getting up again to cross the room and sit in front of the mahogany dressing table. She traced the finely carved wooden contours of the mirror with one finger before staring at her reflection for a while. The heat from the fire had tinged her cheeks with pink and her hair was loosely falling on her shoulders in a cascade of gold catching the glowing light. Her eyes then came to rest on the drawer just underneath the mirror, the one holding the precious letters. They were the last remains of a past she sometimes felt was not hers but that inexplicably filled her with peace every time she imagined the neatly folded paper, the elegant calligraphy in black ink and the distinctive scent of these letters. He had always known how to reach out to her, no matter how.
Leaving the dressing table, Helen headed towards her bed and laid down without pulling the sheets and quilt. The warmth of the fire was now all around her, making the dampness and cold just a distant memory. Breathing a sigh of pleasure, she took the overused book from the bedside table and immersed herself back into the fascinating story of Dorian Gray. Only God knew that Wilde must have hated her for pestering him into finishing the damn novel after days of delay. He had offered her this first – and only – edition of the book on the strict condition that she kept it to herself. Was he going to hand it out to an editor? Helen couldn't tell. All she knew was that she had a true gem in her hands, the result of a dear friend's brilliance who, she didn't doubt it, would have let the manuscript gather dust in a drawer.
Oscar Wilde's words then drew her into the London imagined by the writer. They blurred her surroundings and pulled her along with the ambitious Dorian and his mysterious painting. She heard neither the door of her room being opened nor the figure creeping into it.
It was the cold air worming itself through the heat that yanked her out of the book. Startled, Helen looked up and her breath caught in her throat.
John Druitt stood there, by the dressing table, almost totally eaten away by shadows. His coal-colored redingote dripped onto the wooden floor. Helen became suddenly aware of the rain thrashing against the window and thunder rolling in the distance. Without uttering a single word, John took one step forward while unbuttoning his coat. Then, as if he had just noticed it, he turned his head towards the fire and stared at it for a moment before getting nearer to it and pretending to warm himself up. He grabbed the poker and stirred the flames.
Helen sat on the bed and watched his every movement, unable to tear her gaze away from this man who seemed unreal and eerie. He stood by the fire, his face bathed in the golden light of the flames. She didn't miss a single of his moves as he took off his coat and put it down on a chair. It all reminded her of this happy past now tainted by so much blood and pain that Helen sometimes doubted it had ever existed.
After a few seconds that seemed like hours to Helen, John left the suffocating heat of the hearth and moved around the bed to approach her from the left. Helen backed off as John's eyes came to rest on her for the first time since he had entered the room; she found herself unable to look away. Why the hell couldn't she move, get away from him? Why was she staying there at his mercy? All she could do was put the book down on the quilt. John caught her move and his eyes fell on the book.
"Innocent blood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! For that there was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was possible still..."
The words seemed to Helen as if uttered by a ghost coming straight from Hell. His voice was low and penetrating and she shivered despite the heat. The unreality of it all struck her again as a gnawing anguish settled in her.
"Stop that," she snapped, trying to regain composure. "What are you doing here?"
He didn't answer. For a few seconds his words lingered in Helen's mind, oddly familiar even though she couldn't place them. John sneered, still staring at the book - the flames casting shadows on his face gave him a terrifying look. Helen swallowed hard.
"Mary didn't deserve what you've done to her," she flared up, hoping to make him react.
Images from Mary Kelly's murder floated before her eyes and the nausea that had seized her when looking at the pictures taken in the dead woman's room welled in her stomach again. This was a bloody nightmare.
"I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous..."
As soon as the words were out, she knew where they came from. She stifled a cry of surprise.
"How –"
"Do you think you're the only one who knows Wilde?"
Helen forced herself to look determined when John took his eyes off the book to set them back upon her.
"Your 'soul' John, is no longer welcome here. What are you looking for?"
Feigning sadness, he took one more step forward to stand at the edge of the bed. Fear shot up within Helen and she thought she would scream. Her body was still frozen, unable to respond instinctively to his presence and keep away despite the aversion he inspired her. Jack the Ripper. That was how he was called now. Looking at him, Helen barely recognized the man she used to love so much, the man who should have dived with her into eternity. Today, he was only a shadow of himself, a shadow that haunted the streets of the East End to quench his murderous rage. A shadow that seemed devoid of humanity but Helen wanted to believe there was enough left in him so that one day, he might be able to become aware of his deeds and contemplate his own madness.
John didn't seem too inclined to answer Helen's questions. His smile was gone. His face had now some kind of sternness, as if he had decided that the game was over. He sat on the bed in such in way that he was facing her. She suddenly felt his fingers touching hers and yanked her hand back as if she had burnt herself. Pain and anger twisted John's features as he grabbed Helen's wrist, making her gasp in surprise.
"I'm not a monster," he whispered.
"These poor girls you murdered wouldn't agree with you," she replied in the same tone, trying in vain to break free from his grip.
Anger took over and John clasped her throat with his free hand, choking a cry for help. He could feel blood pulsing in her veins, throbbing under his fingers. Wide-eyed with panic, she was silently begging him - the rage of seeing her so frightened made him tighten his hold. Releasing her wrist, he gently grazed her cheek with his fingers.
"You know, Helen..." he murmured, as he approached his face from hers. "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself..."
"You're...insane," Helen breathlessly stammered. "We shall never... have a future together."
She caught a glimpse of the painful expression that creased his features again before squeezing her eyes shut under the strain of her own pain and the lack of oxygen. Why hadn't she done anything? Why did she let him get so close?
John leaned further towards her and moved so that he was pushing her back on the bed, his right hand still clutching at her throat. Helen flew her eyes open as she felt the pressure on her windpipe increase as he pinned her under him and she squirmed, black dots already clouding her vision. There wasn't a single drop of air left in her lungs and she was slowly drifting away from consciousness when John finally loosened his hold, allowing her to gulp greedily at the oxygen. He kept his hand on her skin, at the base of her throat, feeling her heart pounding wildly against his palm.
"I'm not a monster Helen," he repeated, his face softening into a sad smile.
She watched as he lowered his body to lay down on her right side, propping himself up on his elbow. He pushed his left leg between hers and trailed his fingers down between her breasts, bringing his hand to rest on her abdomen. As if they were still lovers.
"You will excuse me if I don't believe you," Helen croaked in a breath.
"Can't you? I don't want anything more than coming back to you, to his life that we had."
His voice was gentle but dreary and almost pleading. A rush of despair welled within Helen and she turned her head away, struggling to escape him; she let out a sob when he held her more firmly before grabbing her chin to force her to look at him again.
"Why are you fighting? Why can't you admit the obvious, Helen? Stop pushing me away."
"Go away," she hissed. "You don't belong here anymore."
Despite the tears blurring her vision, Helen kept her eyes firmly fixed on his even as he slipped his hand under her nightdress and slid it up her thigh. She grabbed it and tried to push it away but he responded by digging his fingers into her flesh. She watched him as he closed his eyes and let out a low hum, overwhelmed by images from their past; the same images that flooded her own mind as she felt John's warm skin burning hers.
When John opened his eyes again Helen was still staring at him with this now familiar look, a mix of fear, pain and resignation. He hated it when her face was tormented like that. He would have given anything he ever possessed to see it soften into forgiveness and oblivion, to have her look at him not with terror but with love. He hated the horror he inspired her, when he could almost feel each and every fiber of her being reject him where it once seemed that that same being was bound to him, for all eternity.
A single tear rolled down Helen's cheek. When John moved his fingers to wipe it away, she held them back.
Damn you, Oscar.
"You have killed my love," she murmured, her voice shaking and dull, her gaze riveted to his. "You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even stir my curiosity."
"Don't," he snapped, realizing what she was doing.
"You simply produce no effect," Helen went on as anger distorted his face again. "You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again."
In a split second, John took his hand off her thigh and reached in his back pocket, drawing a knife. The blade tinkled lightly as he opened it out with a flick of his thumb and glinted faintly, reflecting the golden light of the fire. John pressed it to her neck, where he could see her blood quiver faintly under her delicate skin. Helen whimpered and flinched but didn't bat an eyelid.
" I will never think of you, I will never mention your name."
Wilde's words were whirling around in her mind and tumbling out of her mouth without any effort. She remembered what she felt the first time she read those words, how they echoed in her soul as if Oscar had known exactly what she was feeling.
The blade pressed harder against her jugular until it cut slightly into her flesh, making Helen cry out in pain. She wriggled underneath John as blood slowly trickled down the tiny wound, glistening in the half-light. She tried to draw her legs to her chest to get away from him while seizing his arm to push the knife away but he crushed her attempt and moved to sit astride her, struggling to lock her arms to her sides with his knees.
"If you keep moving, I'll slit your throat," John growled.
"Go ahead, what the bloody hell are you waiting for?" Helen quavered. "Just do to me what you did to these girls."
The words seemed to make him loose focus for an instant, as if he was suddenly pulled into painful memories. He forgot to push the knife to her skin and let it just rest there. She squirmed again, feeling her arms go numb under the pressure of John's legs. Panic suddenly burst within her and she lost all control, thrashing wildly against his body to free herself until John snapped back into reality and clenched his fingers around her throat again, pressing into her wound and making her yelp in pain.
"Stop. Moving," John grunted again.
"Is this how you want to end it all, John?" she choked. "Why don't you murder me like you murdered your whores-"
A violent clap of thunder shook the entire house as John's hand left her neck to press it on her mouth, leaving a bloody smudge on her cheek. He then leaned down to her, sneering as he saw panic widening her eyes while he trailed the tip of the knife between her breasts then down her belly...
It was the loud cracking of thunder that woke Helen up. She realized she was panting and struggled to catch her breath, eyes wide in the dark. She felt as if an icy hand were gripping her throat, right where John's had been. The fire was nothing more than glowing embers now and a freezing cold had crept in the room. The thick darkness was regularly shattered by bolts of lightning and thunder rumbled above the house. Had it all been a dream?
Helen sat slowly upright and brought her hand to her throat, trailing her fingers on her skin as she peered into the shadows, her heart painfully pounding in her chest. A dream... Or a nightmare, rather, an awful nightmare that seemed so real Helen could still feel the threatening presence of John floating around her.
Startled by a knock on the door, Helen stifled a scream when she realized it was only the maid who came to rekindle the fire. When she was alone again, Helen left the bed and approached the hearth, shivering. As if burned by the flames gaining fervor, the shadows drowning out the bed and the furniture soon recoiled once and for all.
As she was staring aimlessly into the fire, images from her dream swirled in her mind, playing itself out again and again until she finally fell asleep, her fingers tightly clenched around the letter-opener she had picked up on the dressing table.