54…55…56…57…Here we are: number 58. Don't forget your rules Victoria. Be polite and do not upset the family. Remember what happened last time when you made someone mad. We can't have another death on our hands. Samuel isn't here to clean up the blood.
I trot up to the door careful of who's watching. The hall is full of people, mostly the old and ill. The building is in no condition to live in let alone one to raise children. A group of young boys run past me with their caps on and stockings sliding down their knobby knees. The floor squeaks beneath their feet, sounding like it could give at any moment.
After I ensure no one could recognize me as what I am, a smile finds its way onto my face and I knock on the flimsy door three times. A baby's cries alarm through the walls and it seems that every babe on the floor awake from their slumber. I can hear a young woman getting upset at her child's waking and then the footsteps go towards the door.
She smiles to greet me. One tooth sticks out a bit further than the rest and she obviously hasn't charcoaled those disgusting teeth in years if ever. Her hair is blonde, dirty, both in coloring and cleanliness, and piled on her head very messily. The dark circles under her eyes show she hasn't been sleeping and the askew hair in her bun tells that she's been scratching at the lice. How a mother could raise a child with such poor hygiene is beyond me.
Her arms look weak with fatigue, but strong from unneeded labors. Robert is not the man to allow her to do all the work with heavy things. She was with someone else before who wasn't as kind. A small concaved area on her cheek looks like whatever caused it packed a powerful blow. I cannot think of a machine that would do any kind of damage of that nature. Robert stole this girl from her other husband and ran away to America to protect her.
The small room behind the door isn't worth whatever they pay in rent. It is better than the tenants I've seen before, but it can't be much more than that room. Not far behind this little woman is a bed stuffed of nothing more than straw and the linens on it look quite uncomfortable. Right next to the bed is the girl's crib, which is nothing more than a wooden box set up so it can be rocked. A chair is set by it and a stove top is next to it. It wasn't much more than the one in the hotel washroom. In the corner, a dull silver washtub collects dust.
"Hello Miss. What brings you to my doorstep?" She asks noticing my prying eyes.
"Pardon my manners. Your husband Robert sends me. He has had an accident at work and asks that you protect me here while he recovers. I see that this is a lot for you Miss Emily, but it is important nevertheless."
A look of urgent shock grows on the young mother. "What happened? Will he live? Oh please don't tell me I'll have to raise Violet alone."
"Quiet now for your little one," I raise my hand and pretend to soothe her. I am a good liar. "He hit his head trying to protect me from my husband. He was coming to hit me and your Robert stood up for me when no one else would. He is valiant for his deeds. Now, they are putting him up in the hotel to ensure his health. He asked I came here for my safety." My lies may have been an exaggeration and they may have pulled from her being from abusive relations. Maybe I'm a bit manipulative as Samuel said.
Focus stupid. Do not get too sure of yourself.
Emily's face twists from my lie. Her eyes begin to water as if she remembered something horrible. My confidence was true. She just nods and invites me in. I did it. I sit by Violet and smile upon her. I hate children, especially babies. If I could kill them all I would. Sadly, we need them in this world for some god awful reason. I feel newborns should be sent away to a certain island to be taught and once they are seen fit, then and only then may they be sent home. The children should also be organized by intelligence, not age. It would keep the stupid children from corrupting the ignorant. Something drips down my face and Emily gasps.
"Miss, blood is running down your face!" Her face grew white.
I feel my head knowing exactly what it is. "Oh my, its nothing," I underestimate for pity. She will stitch my head if I am the victim.
"No, you must let me help you. I'll be back," she runs off to fetch water.
I stand up and look around the room in better detail. A small table big enough for two sits opposite the stove and the babe. There isn't room for it, but he probably wanted her to have it no matter what. On the table sits a small oil lamp engraved with something I cannot read. It is not American, that I can tell. It seems to be German, but I've never cared much for the Germans, so this death should be easy to cope with.
"What is your name?" The dirty German girl returns with the water. I can't believe I didn't catch that godawful accent sooner. She has been here too long, or I'm rusty. Who knows what I've been doing these past years!
"My name is Isabelle. Isabelle…Greene," I choke out the last name with a tear. A little overacting never hurt a soul.
"Oh! Be quiet now," she pulls a rag out of the pail. "It is okay now. Our job is to carry our husband's name and love him unconditionally." She begins at my head and it stings more than it should, but I don't care. The rag dips quickly in the water, is rung out, and then is put back to use; same over and over again. The water keeps getting redder with each dip in the already dirty water. Emily pulls at my hair dragging out clumps of blood. The rag plops back into the filthy bucket and she holds my chin. "Beautiful. You know we must stay strong. It is our duty," she wipes away one of my tears. If she would've used her motherly touch on my head, there would be no tears.
"Do I need sutures?" I inquire wiping the water from my eyes. I haven't cried this much since I skinned my knees as a young girl.
"Probably, but I do not trust myself with them. I will call the hotel doctor for you, and then he can tell me of Robert's condition." A painful smile grew on Emily's face at the thought of her poor husband being in pain. How I do not pity her. If she was going to be so upset, then maybe she should've told him to not help strange women.
"Do not call the doctor. I fear he will tell my husband where I am," I add a fake wince to my voice. The inflection wins her sympathy. "I've stitched myself before. I could do it again. No need to call anyone. I will only need a needle and thread."
Emily stands and her feet trudge to the top dresser drawer. With a sigh, she places the items in my hands. Without a single word passing my lips, she grabbed the dirty, muddy water stained, mirror and held it so I could see what I was doing.
I make quick work on stitching my gash. This isn't my first time stitching something that I didn't know how it happened and it wouldn't be the last time I did either. In places, my needle wouldn't break through my skin because of old scars. How awful. Women shouldn't have scars like I do. Lucky for me I am no ordinary woman.
Women make their time better with children. Why anyone would put themselves through that torture is beside me. I'd much rather do something meaningful to the world. Why raise a child when I can wreak havoc? Every scar on my body is a battle scar, a victory, a reminder of the things I cannot remember for the life of me. I cannot imagine a life where a scar is just something gotten as a child or as an abuse from the husband. Life is made to be lived. What is a life measured in children and the husband's happiness?
Life is made for love, laughs, scars, and memories. A woman cannot freely voice her opinion and that is wrong. Anything a man could conjure couldn't compare to what comes naturally to a woman. Men lack the wits that a woman does and because of that women must be suppressed, so men are seen as the wiser. These times must change. Men and women must be equal and I'll be dammed if the reason I cannot voice my opinion is a house wife being beaten half to death every night.
I pull the thread tightly to ensure the sutures don't bust open. I gather my belongings and begin to leave the home without a further word. Emily grabs my wrist. "You can't leave with your husband out there. He will kill you."
I turn towards her with a grin plastered across my face and a throaty cackle seeping out my lips. "Emily, take care of your young one. Your husband is dead and I killed him. If you are smart, then you'll keep quiet. Don't forget I know where you live and I know your name. I could also notify the authorities that a man's wife ran off with another man and she needs to be sent home. Do not underestimate me child. I was married to the killer Samuel Greene, not like that means a thing to you. He's been dead for years and I've been carrying on the legacy he never finished. Now, hush child," I place my finger on her lips and whirl my skirts out the door.
I can hear her begin to scream and wail as I slam the door. People in the halls avoid looking my direction at all costs. How smart of them.
They all look like German filth, Victoria. One day you need to kill them all. They wronged you and they need to pay. Why should they be let off easy when you never have? You are only a girl everyone says. Lucky for you they cannot see your battle wounds; your trophies of kills. Victoria Greene, you will go down in history as the woman gone mad that got away. Good. You deserve no less.
******NOTE: I do not want to give off the impression that I hate any race. The "German hate" you see in the story is only part of the plot line and will influence how different things play out much later. Once again, I love everyone and I would really hate to see someone get offended over this. I am just playing along with the time frame in the story. I love all of you!******