Hey, thanks everyone for the reviews. They really inspire me to keep writing. Sorry for the longest delay ever, but stories will be posted much faster than
before. In the mean time, sit back, relax, and enjoy(or don't, which would be most unfortunate).
In the early breath of the morning rose a thick London fog. Now London is famous for it's mist; it is as thick as a quilt, but not until today has such a blanket ever been seen. It crept slowly at first, a shadow that lengthened as the day flew up. By the tear of morning, it had become a coverlet as thick as the smoke of opium, but didn't smell nearly as nice. It was more than a mere fog, but ugly smog which suffocated what little sweet smelling air that London possessed. Days such as these were considered omens of clouded futures, ones that made us blind, brought confusion, created tension, or bubbled misunderstandings. Such times made the superstitious especially fearful, and a most of the passerby were seen carrying their good luck charms.
Jack rose bright and early, the fears of the previous night had seemed to have retreated into their place among the greenish thickness that dwelled outside on Fleet Street. The comforting blaze of the fire had burned out only hours before, or was it days? Jack couldn't remember yesterday, and felt as dead as a weight of lead, as if he had slept for two days straight. Was he even awake? No, he was, and waves of memories of the happy occasion yesterday that was their wedding flowed through his body like water. Much to his dismay, it was neither perfect, nor glamorous (the reception was nothing more than their parents and them at a local pub), yet he remembered being the happiest he had felt in a very long time. He turned to his wife's side, looking down upon her dewy face, a thin brown curl dancing over her eye. "Good morning." He kissed her forehead, the weight upon his back lifting off of him as he re-accounted the glorious feeling of the night before; him holding her tight, him feeling her body close to him, the wedding kiss...He had the urge to fall back into a happy dream, but was interrupted by Mattie turning over to look at him.
"Did you say sumthin'?" she inquired, looking at his gleaming face.
"Just woke you to say, happy days and happy nights are ahead," he replied kissing her forehead again. Happy nights indeed. She realized another one of her fears last night: Jack was undoubtedly the world's most horrible lover. Not that she'd ever been with anyone else, but anyone could probably tell that he was a zero in the bed department. Happy days were sure to be an oxymoron.
"Good morrow to you too," she said without enthusiasm. He leaned in for another kiss, but she turned her head and left the bed to put on a dress. Jack, realizing that she was in no mood for a kiss, pulled himself out of bed and began to put on his doctor's uniform. He would begin his job today in the St. Margaret's Hospital of London, one that he was unsure of. From what he'd heard, the place was an absolute joke of a hospital, more of an apothecary than a doctor's place. Still, it was the only hospital in a 10 mile radius of the house, and his previous job was over 20 miles away, too far to make it on time. Mattie would be spending her days at the house until she could find friends to spend tea time with or eat biscuits. He brushed his brown hair into a neat set of waves, giving him a near gentleman status look. After all, one must look their best for a job. Mattie made breakfast out of oatmeal and toast: ordinary, unlike the weather. For a while Jack didn't want to trudge out into the streets with such a horrendous fog, but realized it was all for the best if he went. Before departing, he retreated to the upstairs room, when his wife was fixing her hair. After returning downstairs, he waved his wife goodbye, and briskly walked out into a mist so thick that Mattie lost sight of him after only a few steps out of the door.
Once he was out of her sight, Mattie turned to face the old pie shop, an almost useless addition to the house. She sighed, thinking of long boring days that lay ahead of her. She didn't know any of the neighbors, and from what she observed, she felt as if she didnt want to. Still, it was better than living the rest of her days in solitude. She pondered for a while how she could acquire a few local friends. Many of her close companions lived over 40 miles away: close from her old home, but now reaching them and returning home could take the entire day, or even more. Perhaps she could write to one of them today, or even all of them. What time did she have to lose? Mattie gathered her best stationary and sat in the booth, determined to procrastinate a much as possible. She began to write to them, inquiring to them about how her days were, about her home and husband, which she made sure to write in a way that was as sugar coated as fresh taffy. She did not wish to mention about her woes and worries of her new home, especially considering its notorious history. She saw no reason for her to bring her friends any trouble or worry, lest they all become officious in their writings, scolding her about poor choices and things that she didn't want to hear. She purposely wrote as slowly as possible, hoping that time would speed up around her, letting this day end. By the time she finished her letters with meticulous detail and perfection, carefully creasing the letters perfectly in division, spent careful time placing the stamps in perfect angularity to the corner of the envelope, only two hours were used up. "Dammit!" she cursed to herself, and placed her forehead on the table. She let her mind drift, thinking about chores she could do, or book clubs she could attend, drifing in and out of thoughts. They soon moved away from their pettyness, and turned darker. Clouded thoughts of coldness made her skin tingle. This lonliness was taking its toll on her, and she felt irritable. She eventually became lost in her thoughts, consumed by a plague of hopelessness, want, and confusion. All of these mood swings were beginning to wear at her body, making her always crave for rest. She closed and drifted into a restless sleep, the edge of the table pinching her rib cage...
Mattie was standing in the bake house, finishing up scrubbing a large spot on the floor, as well as a trail that lead towards the meat grinder. She inspected the stone floors and concluded that the job was done well enough. The dress she wore felt awfully heavy, and could see it decorated in an ornate matter, full of useless trimming and details. She wore tasteless fingerless gloves, which served more as dusters than hand-warmers. The menacing glow of the oven radiated on her back, casting a long and thin silhouette. She felt shorter and older somehow, like she wasn't herself, but someone else. Her thoughts seemed sporadic and shifty, at sometimes thinking of work ahead, then reverting back to Jack and his overbearing grin. She glided forward with purpose and pride, carried by feet that seemed to move against her will towards the heaping pile of metal that contained the foulest smelling meat ever. The whole bake house reeked of some ghastly smell, which was far worse than when she first experienced it that first day in this underground pit. She stepped in front of a large, outlandish handle on the side of the heaping contraption. Grabbing it, Mattie, no, she (for Mattie knew for sure now that this woman in the dream was not her, though she saw this scene as if from the mystery woman's eyes) began to turn the iron rod, making a sickening grinding noise as the pile of meat was chopped and sloshed through like rock made into butter. She felt disgusted as she heard the finely grounded meat dripped from the grinder and dripped into a large trough. After a few minutes of working, the trough was half-way full. Satisfied, she was just about to shovel the meat into the multitude of tin cans that were scattered about the bake house when there was a loud creak, then the sound of an opening door made her stop. It wasn't the door to the bake house, but another one that Mattie had not noticed in her previous excursion. She shifted her eyes towards the ceiling to see and inconspicuous trap door open. A large, dark mass fell through. Upon first instant, Mattie couldn't comprehend what this immense mass was, until it cracked on the floor and blood splattered about. Once it landed with a splitting of a skull, she saw it was a man, dead, with his last look one of horror as he realized his grizzly fate. Mattie wanted to scream, and shouted in her mind she did, but this body simply sighed and muttered about cleaning up another mess. She dragged the body to a large flat slate, raised a large butcher's knife, and sliced it down on his cheast...
"OH MY GOD!" she shouted with forceful intensity, a cry escaping her lips that resembled Jack's from his nightmare during the night. She woke up with a cold sweat upon her face, her breathing short yet strong. Hyperventilating, she raced to the restroom to splash cold water upon her face. Wiping her pale skin, she stared at her eyes, wide with disbelief and bloodshot. She stared at her face, making sure it was hers and not belonging to another. It took her until she was awake in this state of shock, but she realized that the woman she dreamed of had to be the infamous Mrs. Lovett. She couldn't believe what she saw. Had that woman no pity in her heart? Did she even have any thoughts to those poor souls other than the mess their blood and brains made on the floor? She had to leave the house then, if only for a few hours. She swiped her purse of the hat rack and slipped into her coat, and raced out of the house. She felt her heart grow warmer and lift out of its weight the moment she stepped into the thick, sullied fog, jogging off to the local market.
Markets, malls, outlets, what have you, are usually respectable establishments with a decent amount of taste and class that carries them with a certain grace, excitement, or freshness. Contrary to those, the Fore Street Market couldn't have been more opposite, so lacking in taste and no possessing even the slightest bit of grace. No, the Fore Street Market was a chaos populated by a great multitude of ruddy stands, selling everything from headless chickens with their feathers still on, to sex, to tacky rugs, to rusty swords. Such a random assortment was diffused throughout it; some were sellers, others beggars, prostitutes, Lords and their Ladies, and many ordinary denizens. Mattie wondered about their presence in a stupor, not really hearing the cries of the countless clerks desperate for a customers attention. All she wanted was to clear her mind, which was now as foggy as the air around her, made even worse here than most of London. She could only think about that unidentifiable poor creature that had not been shown any help, any mercy. He fell to the earth, only to be swallowed by it, ready to be prepared for consumption. She felt appalled by the sight of herself dragging his open-ended body and thoughtlessly hacking him into strips for the meat grinder.
"'Scuse me miss?"
Mattie jumped back in a jolt, preparing to flee from anything that so much as tapped her shoulder. She spun around, expecting some pick-pocketer trying to distract her from his hand slipping into her purse. Instead, she gazed upon the most gorgeous man she'd have ever seen, and possibly the most beautiful human in all of England. He was tall, but not much more than she, with a strong jaw and chin, lacking even a speck of stubble. His skin was slightly tanned, enhancing his midnight blue eyes that seemed as deep as the Atlantic. His dark brown hair was styled in a neat set of waves that begged for a hand to run through it. He wore a new and well-fitted work suit, and his golden pocket watch chain was dangling out of his breast pocket. Standing in this crowd, he stood out as bright as the sunset. "Are you lost?" he asked in a deep, velvet voice that bore a Scottish accent. "'Tis not wise for a lady like yourself to be lone of these streets," he grinned, bearing a full of set of good, strong teeth.
"No sir, I'm not lost, jus' in a bit 'o a stupor 'tis all," she replied politely, smiling coyly at his seductive, inviting eyes. "Wha' bout you? 'Tis not wise for a man as well dressed as yourself to be walkin' down these streets withou' a Beadle," she said in a teasing voice. He chuckled at her comment.
"A man like me can take care 'o 'imself," he smiled. She giggled at his sweet smile, one of the few full grown men besides Jack who could proudly display all of his teeth. "My name is Ethan Dolton, and wit wha' pleasure may I ask is your name?" he asked, holding out his hand in a manner that a man uses to kiss a woman's hand. Just as she was about to return the favor by holding out her hand, she quickly realized her wedding ring was on. In a slip, she pulled it off effortlessly and without Ethan's apparent knowledge.
"Crawford, Miss Mattie Crawford," she said, holding out her had and letting him kiss it gently.
"So Miss Mattie, wha' may I inquire as to why you are wonderin' this market alone?" he asked.
"Oh, you know, lookin' for a good deal. And wha' bout yourself?"
"Same as you I 'spose. I was headin' back to my flat. But maybe I could git you sum coffee?" he said, smiling flirtily. At first she pursed her lips as if to speak a yes, but then her thoughts flashed images of Jack, looking at her with that sweet yet idiotic smile. She knew that he loved only her, and that he would be completely broken if he knew she was doing this. Still, it was only coffee, what was the harm in a fresh refreshment with an acquaintance?
"Well, if only for a short while. Lead the way." And with that, they descended down the hill, away from whatever worries dotted their minds, until the thick fog covered all that remained of their silhouettes.
Jack finished the amputation over an hour ago, but he could still hear the screams that cried from the young man. Removal of leg wasn't pleasant, but when gangrene strikes you, there isn't anything else to do. Such work was gruesome, yet necessary. When he first started his doctorial practices, gazing upon the faces of the patients in agony almost sent him over the edge, but since then, his stomach had tightened. He often wished there was a way of putting them out of their misery. It was often common practice of doping them with opium or marijuana, but Jack had never trusted such practices, always having the feeling of something sinister that was behind their comforting stupor.
He was walking through the brisk afternoon air, still encircled in fog so thick that a knife might have cut through it like butter. His hair was slightly frazzled from all of the mist, which gave him a slightly wild look. His steps were echoing against the tall houses of the privileged few who could afford such nice places. Not many were going about today; women were too afraid to frazzle their hair and men didn't want to crash their carriages because they couldn't see fifteen feet in front of them. So other than a stray dog that lay dying in the street, there wasn't a soul to be seen but him. He quickened his pace; wanting nothing more than to reach home and find his wife. Perhaps she picked up some of his favorite toffees, she knew that he adored the candies. He became lost in his daydreams of her, with her hair shining in the light of the fireplace, playing a beautiful sonatina on the piano, perhaps a piece by Thomas Attwood. Or maybe not, more than likely she was cleaning the house, baking, or writing letters to friends. He wondered if he should grow out of his dreams, thinking that maybe he needed to mature out of their web of a reality that doesnt exist.
He suddenly became aware of another one's steps which were casually trailing his own path of direction. Uncomfortable, he quickened his steps, but the ones that belonged to the unknown man quickened as well. Jack felt for the large razor in his jacket pocket. Before leaving the house that morning, he went upstairs to the old barber shop to feel the gleaming silver once again. For whatever reason, the warmth of the intricate blades was soothing, interesting, tempting. A small voice that nobody could hear seemed to be whispering into his mind, "Take them. Aren't my friends precious?" Something about them felt...comforting. Before leaving for work, he placed the smallest one in his pocket. Grabbing the razor, he turned around, preparing to defend himself against a possible mugger or worse, a murderer. He flipped the razor, revealing the shining sharp end of the blade. He quickly realized his follower was none other than Tobais Ragg. At the sight of the blade, Tobias eyes grew wide with horror, and he cringed in fear of the tool, whimpering at the sight of it.
"Oh dear! I'm so sorry Mr. Ragg, I must've mistaken you for a mugg-"
"Where did you git tha'?" he said in a hoarse, slightly panicked voice, pointing at the silver razor as if all of the worlds curses were cast upon it by a great witch doctor. "Didn't I tell you to leave dat house? 's cursed, you know! And them razors, 'orrors 'appen to those who've felt their touch. Beware 'o 'em sir, throw 'em in the sea where they belong!" Tobias seemed to go into a fit of panic, rage, and maddness. He began to cling to Jack, begging him to throw away the "Devil's Instruments". Jack was becoming quite irritated with this man, who was quickly ruining his otherwise ordinary day.
"Must you bother me sir? Away with you!" he shouted, pushing Tobias to the ground, the old man crumbled when he hit the pavement. Jack had no interest in helping him out: he was trying to ruin his otherwise perfect life. With that, he disappeared down the avenue until Tobias could only see his shape; his long coat, messy hair, and the razor held unfolded in his right hand. For a fleeting second, Tobais gasped, thinking it couldn't possibly be, until Jack faded into the distance.
Remember, don't do pot kiddies, promise? Otherwise, you might end up on Jack's surgical table like that poor guy with the amputated limb
