Sitting with nothing but a large, wooden oak desk between her and what later would become her prey, Angelina sat with a clipboard in hand, looking over her seldom used glasses perched on the end of her nose to the woman before her. One leg crossed over the other, she was hardly listening to the ramblings that escaped… Angelina glanced to her clipboard to remind herself of the woman's name… Elizabeth Stride's overly rouged gape. It didn't really matter what her story was, Angelina had heard it all.
"I just can't afford it…"
"I simply don't want it…"
"I didn't mean it to happen…"
"It is just my job…"
But it all equated to the same two outcomes: the rather different slashes of two very different blades.
Pursing her full lips into a thin line, Angelina cut off Elizabeth midsentence.
"Are you sure about this decision, Ma'am?" Oh, how it pained her to not only sit there before the ragged nymphet, but to stay on such polite terms! She wanted nothing more than to drive the very quill in her hand through Stride's neck and be done with it. But… that would wait 'til later.
"Once the procedure is done, there is nothing that can be done to reverse it."
This was entirely true on so many levels; Stride's next words would either sign her death warrant or clear her freedom. But there was no question as to what she'd reply, there never was.
"Of course, I am sure."
Angelina set her clipboard down with a gentle click and signed the form with a few elaborate arcs before handing it to Elizabeth, who held the quill awkwardly and left her mark: a mark which might have well been inked in her own blood. Almost snatching the board back, a smile which did not reach anywhere near her crimson eyes playing on her lips, Angelina rose to her feet and gestured to the corridor.
"After you, my dear." She said, her voice steady and calm, holding the door open and then following behind to the theatre where this bloody little show would take place.
"My profession itself deals in death, if you were to think about it… it relies on death. Without it there would be no work for someone such as myself to carry out, would be no work for me. You may ask why I do not leave my occupation, which exposes me so very readily to pain that causes my very core to ache. I shall never leave because I cannot, not when I know what I can do whilst retaining my position. It has become part of my work, the late night trips to the East End of London. If ever were to leave my practise in another's care I know they would never carry out what is essentially part of the procedure. And in my opinion, such an act of selfishness would be worse than any bloody murder I commit.
Death comes in many, many forms. The initial work of my practise is to arrange and carry out the organised –and seemingly moral- death of an infant. Just the existence of my occupation is proof to the sickening amount of social acceptance that such a procedure receives, and I cannot fight against this anymore passionately than I think I do. This is an accepted death, a socially tolerable death, one which many would see as nothing more than a nuisance.
But what follows these acceptable deaths –to any who attended the practise in which I work, at least- are ones that I believed are quite unavoidable. It will just not do to let these previous deaths go unpunished, now would it? No, and so I take the liberty of seeing to it that this is put straight. The demise of these women therefore is a necessary death. These necessary deaths are not at all tragic, either. The only sympathy I ever feel is that it had had to happen, but it is just a bitter fleeting thought that barely scrapes the brim of my consciousness."
A few hours passed, and with a click of her heels and a passive 'good-bye', Elizabeth Stride left the practise, her burden lessened. And as the burden had left her, it became that of Angelina Durless'.
Angelina never could leave the theatre hastily, she remained in its walls for a good while even after the last drop of blood, last shimmering blade and last dirtied glove was cleared away. She stood, her back to the cold wall, her head tilted to the darkened ceiling, gently glistening silent tears making tracks on her porcelain skin. Gritting her teeth together, she refused to give in and make the slightest noise, the lump in her throat leaving her almost gasping for the breath she denied herself. Letting herself slip down against the wall 'til her knees were tucked beneath her chin, Angelina gripped at the material of her dress desperately, as if doing so would right all the oppressing wrongs which bore down upon her stronger at that moment than they had ever before.
It wasn't her fault, was it?
She wasn't to blame, was she?
A sob bubbled violently up her throat, causing her to gasp and wrap her arms around her chest as it convulsed painfully, it felt like her very core was being hollowed out by unseen fingers.
With a sudden, erratic movement, Angelina let out a cry, slamming her fist into the chilled floor beneath her, her wide eyes staring blankly as desperate pants escaped her clenched teeth. Hanging her head and pulling herself to her feet, her face covered by her now dishevelled crimson locks, Angelina made her way out the theatre, through her office and to the door, wrenching it open without so much as a glance upward, the cold night air rushing in and swirling her hair and clothing in perfect unison.
A dark figure stood grinning in the doorway, his round glasses shining a bright glint which hid his emerald eyes.
"M'lady, shall we be on our way?"
Taking Grell's outstretched hand, Angelina replaced her blank mask of uncaring indifference, which to anyone who did not know her well would have been flawless. But Grell did know well, and could tell by the glint in her eye, the slight curl of her lip and the harsh edge to her breath that deep inside her a monster was dwelling, and it set his heart alight.
"M'lady is so very beautiful…" He breathed, tilting his head to the side and cupping his cheek in his palm, a look of total adoration adorning his falsely innocent features.
"Enough with the flattery, Grell! We are to go to White Chapel… immediately." Angelina near shouted, quickly adjusting her tone to one of impeccable order. Roughly drying her cheeks with the back of her gloved hand, she strode toward the awaiting carriage before her butler could reply.
"M-M'Lady…?" He stammered, bounding after her and instead of taking his seat at the reigns, diving into the carriage after her.
"Why are we not returning to the Manor first, M'lady?" He quizzed, raising an eyebrow, rather interested in Angelina's erratic behaviour.
"Because we can afford to…" She echoed him with a dangerous smirk, holding the door to the carriage open with her heeled foot.
"Grell? Make haste… we have a fox to cull."
Letting out an excited giggle, Grell gave his Madame a quick salute, before diving out once again and jumping straight to the driving seat, his brunette ponytail whipping around his grinning face as he grasped the reigns with vigour.
"Come, seeling night~
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day!
And with thy bloody and invisible hand
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond
Which keeps me pale!"
Grell quoted gleefully, crowing his Shakespearian quotations to the thick, inked night sky, throwing his arms to the heaven and bringing them back sharply. A vigorous crack of the reigns, the horses sprang into action and Grell's giggles were drowned out by the horses braying and the clatter of their heels on the cobblestones as they sped down the dimly lit road.