Alright. I don't own Sweeney Todd in his magnificence…
And when you get to paragraph five, actually stop and think of what it would sound like- adds to the creepish effect. ;)
It started off like any other day…
Nellie Lovett ran a damp rag over the flour-strewn surface of her baking area. True, her pies were said, now, to be the best in London, but even with that title, the conditions under which she baked them were more or less the same as when they'd been the worst. Sighing and brushing off the excess flour that had one way or another missed both the counter and the pies, and had ended up all over her front, Mrs. Lovett decided to venture into the parlor and read a nice book for a while, before shop opened for the day. Though it already seemed about one o'clock in the afternoon, it was, in reality, only seven in the A.M., so she still had some time before the afternoon rush.
Just as she was about to sit down, Mrs. Lovett heard the door to her shop burst open and slam against the wall, making the bell ring, before it closed again thanks to the great forces that were acting upon it. Quickly running out to see who it was that dared disturb her quiet reading time, she stopped dead in her tracks when she realized that it was only Mr. Todd. Poor, sweet, terribly misunderstood Mr. Todd. She sighed upon making the realization, then rushed over to him. "What's the matter, love? Oh, and look at your sleeve- all bloody, it is." She made a small 'tsk' sound, then hurried over to the counter and began searching for a rag of some sort that was befitting dear Mr. Todd. All the while, she babbled endlessly.
Why did the woman have to be so damn talkative? That was the only question that Sweeney Todd wanted answered at the moment, and yet the stupid lady could only seem to ask and answer her own questions. Just never-ending words always coming at him. He never knew what she was saying, of course, either because she was speaking far too quickly for his brain to even begin to comprehend, or because he simply tuned her out, having better things to listen to (mostly playing out in his head how he was going to kill the judge, and exactly what was going to be said). Sweeney blinked, and Mrs. Lovett's words became slightly more audible- slightly more annoying. Something about some dog that was around earlier, or maybe something that rhymed with that? He didn't know, and really didn't care. At this point, her words were just blended, horrid sounds.
He didn't want to do it, really he didn't, but he found his hand clutching his precious silver razor tightly in his hand. "Mrs. Lovett, please shut up." He didn't want to, but she just kept talking. She ignored him completely. "Please." Why was he begging with her? Why did he care if she listened or not? He had never listened to her- not once, so why was she suddenly supposed to listen to him? "Mrs. Lovett-"
Sweeney was interrupted when his hand, complete with open razor, flung itself at Mrs. Lovett, her only expression being that of surprise. He knocked her to the floor, the razor plunging over and over into her throat, her eye- anywhere that he could get at. Sweeney heard the sickening sound of the cool metal making contact with the bones, cracking them, snapping them in two. The sound of the flesh tearing, ripping to shreds… He wanted to stop; he hadn't wanted to do it… But he couldn't find the power to make his hand stop stabbing. The blood was everywhere- on the floor, on the ceiling, on him. That's when he stopped.
Sweeney realized that he now dripped Mrs. Lovett's rubies. There they were, all over him, all over the shop, looking him in the face plain as day. He didn't mean to do it, he had had no desire to do it… Why? That was now his only question, though he did not have a babbling landlady in the background. It was silent- silent like death, or like he imagined death to be. He'd silenced her forever, and that in it self was enough to cause him great grief. So there he sat, alone, barely anything left of his Mrs. Lovett, in a puddle of her rubies that seeped into the cracks of the floor, running on and on for what seemed like an eternity. All he could do for the next few minutes was stare at his hand, still firmly clasping the bloodied razor. He hadn't meant to do it, he didn't want to have done it…
And ended like no other.
Well, that's that. Um, review if you want? I know it's short and kinda rambly and nonsenseish.