HOME | DD

Description
The customer almost left without paying, but she was quick. She was not an ineffectual dame like others, she knew how to take care of herself. She got her knee between his legs and brought it up with a force stronger than that of Hercules. The man fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Coins dropped out of his hand and rolled to her feet. She smiled at her reward.
“That’ll teach ya, sonny!” she cackled at him.  With another swift kick for good measure, she left him in the street, hurrying through alleyways to find lodgings for the night. Or another night’s wages.
Her dress of deepest red was awfully dirty yet warm on such dreary London nights. Even so, she rubbed her arms trying to get more warmth into her icy skin. The air took an eerie chill and soon she found that the street was deadly silent. She went to move but saw a glimmer of silver in front of her. She went to scream only to find a hand covering her mouth. Her eyes widened and then, nothing. All life left her as she was dragged into a passage, to vanish as if never existing.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He walked out from the shadows, his own following him on the ground below him. The soft padding of leather soles on concrete was the only sound that could be heard. His black cloak flowed behind, barely visible in the night sky. Sliver glinted in his left hand. Suddenly, he was on her. His right hand over her mouth. His knife across her throat. Fear had reflected on the knife’s surface before falling blank and lifeless. They moved out of the dim light into an alleyway. His knife descended on her again. With a practiced precision, the metal sliced through the creamy membrane leaving a trail of rubies in its wake. Another line and a cross had formed. Each segment was slowly pulled back to release the treasure inside. A white glove entered the chasm and wrapped itself around his prize; the heart. He cut the connections holding the heart in place within the maiden’s chest. His hands cradled the organ while removing it from its confines. Blood dripped over the edges of his hands, the white gloves forever stained, yet he paid no heed to it. His attention was solely focused on the bleeding appendage. He continued to hold it in his right hand while the left rose above. His index and middle finger carefully stroked the broken article loving. His features softened for the first time as a smile fell from his face, braking through his cold front. The moment passed quickly as the blank expression returned. He reached into his jacked and pulled out a brown cloth bag. The heart was placed into the sack and the drawstring was pulled tight. His black form rose from the ground and, with his shadow leading the way, he disappeared into the darkness.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His hands shook with the cold, London air. He rubbed them together and blew on them to create warmth.  A cloud of dust formed causing him to cough viciously. He reached into his makeshift pocket taking out a ready-made makeshift cigarette. From the other pocket, he produced a silver case. On the bottom left corner were the initials EC. For a moment he wondered what the letter might stand for yet, as it was of little consequence to him, he opened the case without another thought. Inside was a row of matches, only a few missing. He smirked while taking out a match and stuck it across the corresponding rough surface. The flame burst into life, starling the horse. He snarled at it, shouting at it to shut up. When the stallion had calmed down, he went back to lighting his cigarette. Without fully closing the silver case, he shoved it back into dirty green jacket, ripping the material slightly creating a larger hole. The raised the cigarette to his mouth and drew in a long breath, sucking the tobacco into his lungs. A sense of relief crossed his face when he breathed out, but the piece was broken when, yet again, he fell into a coughing fit.
“Really, Ron, you must get that rid of that retched coughing,” came a voice from the darkness.
Emerging from the shadows was a man dressed in black from head to toe, except from his hands. On his hands were white gloves which appeared to be stained.
“Of course, master, sir. Immediately, master, sir,” he replied, quickly bowing not wanting to look into his employers eyes.
He hated how his master snuck up on him unexpectedly. It made him feel foolish, and he didn’t like to feel foolish. He was told to get the carriage ready to take his master home. He would be glad to leave himself. The carriage trundled along as dawn approached.
He heard a cry of “murder” as he continued on the road. He lowered his head further. Dirty as he knew his soul was, he still felt shame as he rode into the light on top of the black carriage.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His polished boots hit the pavement with an even beat as he patrolled the area. His hat felt stiff on his head and he often found that he had to rebalance it so it would stay on. His crisp uniform still refused to conform to his shape and keep him insulated from the cold. The lamp in his hand created a yellow glow around him but it still could not compete with the bitter night air. Yet, he enjoyed nights like this. The cold kept people off the streets and so he had less to do.
He relaxed his steps as he rounded a corner. He liked to walk in alleyways. He could drop the façade of professionalism and escape the watchful glares of passer-by’s. On ‘beats’ like this, he liked to have moments to himself. He walked along slowly, thinking silent thoughts to himself.
Then something blocked his way. His boot hit something solid on the ground. Something large. He looked down to see the obstruction. He froze. A woman lay at his feet, dressed in red, or was that… blood? He turned green, a sickly colour that contrasted with his dark navy attire. He fell to the ground as his legs gave way. As he retched and gagged, he desperately tried to remove the image from his mind. But it had burned into his mind, showing when he closed his eyes.  And the body remained, never moving, on front of him.  He brought the whistle to his mouth and tried to blow, but no sound escaped. He tried a second and a third time, but still no luck. His forth attempt gave such a shriek that even the inner panic of his young mind was brought out of its madness. He stood. He continued to blow through the silver piece, and cried out: “MURDER! THE SOUTHWARK SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN!!!”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He walked into the room and pulled the string above him. A harsh light struck the four walls. A table sat alone in the middle. A maiden lay atop. He took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled the smoke from his mouth. He grimaced as he looked at the fifth victim to sit there in as many weeks. He returned the burning substance to his mouth and wiped his hands on his apron. He moved forward with the elegance of buffalo in a stampede.  He noted the damage already done to her and thought how his job felt obsolete. He already knew what he found find. Serial killers like routine. So do the police.
The chest already open, he discarded the knife in his hand. With no care for the body, he created a larger opening to fit his grubby hands. A quick overview told him that there was no bone damage and almost all the organs were in place and unharmed. All, except the heart.
How funny, he thought, that the murderer would steal the girls’ hearts. What an unusual character he must be. What a strange fetish he has.
He knew there was nothing different about this body compared to the rest; stolen heart, sliced neck. It was the exact same as the other four. He found himself wishing he knew the mans motive, but his mind was not good as problem solving. He only sliced people up.
“I suppose,” he muttered, “we’re not that different, you and I.”
Rubbing his hands on the stain apron once again, he left the room and turned out the light. Darkness enveloped the room. The victim quickly forgotten.

Description
The customer almost left without paying, but she was quick. She was not an ineffectual dame like others, she knew how to take care of herself. She got her knee between his legs and brought it up with a force stronger than that of Hercules. The man fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Coins dropped out of his hand and rolled to her feet. She smiled at her reward.
“That’ll teach ya, sonny!” she cackled at him.  With another swift kick for good measure, she left him in the street, hurrying through alleyways to find lodgings for the night. Or another night’s wages.
Her dress of deepest red was awfully dirty yet warm on such dreary London nights. Even so, she rubbed her arms trying to get more warmth into her icy skin. The air took an eerie chill and soon she found that the street was deadly silent. She went to move but saw a glimmer of silver in front of her. She went to scream only to find a hand covering her mouth. Her eyes widened and then, nothing. All life left her as she was dragged into a passage, to vanish as if never existing.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He walked out from the shadows, his own following him on the ground below him. The soft padding of leather soles on concrete was the only sound that could be heard. His black cloak flowed behind, barely visible in the night sky. Sliver glinted in his left hand. Suddenly, he was on her. His right hand over her mouth. His knife across her throat. Fear had reflected on the knife’s surface before falling blank and lifeless. They moved out of the dim light into an alleyway. His knife descended on her again. With a practiced precision, the metal sliced through the creamy membrane leaving a trail of rubies in its wake. Another line and a cross had formed. Each segment was slowly pulled back to release the treasure inside. A white glove entered the chasm and wrapped itself around his prize; the heart. He cut the connections holding the heart in place within the maiden’s chest. His hands cradled the organ while removing it from its confines. Blood dripped over the edges of his hands, the white gloves forever stained, yet he paid no heed to it. His attention was solely focused on the bleeding appendage. He continued to hold it in his right hand while the left rose above. His index and middle finger carefully stroked the broken article loving. His features softened for the first time as a smile fell from his face, braking through his cold front. The moment passed quickly as the blank expression returned. He reached into his jacked and pulled out a brown cloth bag. The heart was placed into the sack and the drawstring was pulled tight. His black form rose from the ground and, with his shadow leading the way, he disappeared into the darkness.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His hands shook with the cold, London air. He rubbed them together and blew on them to create warmth.  A cloud of dust formed causing him to cough viciously. He reached into his makeshift pocket taking out a ready-made makeshift cigarette. From the other pocket, he produced a silver case. On the bottom left corner were the initials EC. For a moment he wondered what the letter might stand for yet, as it was of little consequence to him, he opened the case without another thought. Inside was a row of matches, only a few missing. He smirked while taking out a match and stuck it across the corresponding rough surface. The flame burst into life, starling the horse. He snarled at it, shouting at it to shut up. When the stallion had calmed down, he went back to lighting his cigarette. Without fully closing the silver case, he shoved it back into dirty green jacket, ripping the material slightly creating a larger hole. The raised the cigarette to his mouth and drew in a long breath, sucking the tobacco into his lungs. A sense of relief crossed his face when he breathed out, but the piece was broken when, yet again, he fell into a coughing fit.
“Really, Ron, you must get that rid of that retched coughing,” came a voice from the darkness.
Emerging from the shadows was a man dressed in black from head to toe, except from his hands. On his hands were white gloves which appeared to be stained.
“Of course, master, sir. Immediately, master, sir,” he replied, quickly bowing not wanting to look into his employers eyes.
He hated how his master snuck up on him unexpectedly. It made him feel foolish, and he didn’t like to feel foolish. He was told to get the carriage ready to take his master home. He would be glad to leave himself. The carriage trundled along as dawn approached.
He heard a cry of “murder” as he continued on the road. He lowered his head further. Dirty as he knew his soul was, he still felt shame as he rode into the light on top of the black carriage.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His polished boots hit the pavement with an even beat as he patrolled the area. His hat felt stiff on his head and he often found that he had to rebalance it so it would stay on. His crisp uniform still refused to conform to his shape and keep him insulated from the cold. The lamp in his hand created a yellow glow around him but it still could not compete with the bitter night air. Yet, he enjoyed nights like this. The cold kept people off the streets and so he had less to do.
He relaxed his steps as he rounded a corner. He liked to walk in alleyways. He could drop the façade of professionalism and escape the watchful glares of passer-by’s. On ‘beats’ like this, he liked to have moments to himself. He walked along slowly, thinking silent thoughts to himself.
Then something blocked his way. His boot hit something solid on the ground. Something large. He looked down to see the obstruction. He froze. A woman lay at his feet, dressed in red, or was that… blood? He turned green, a sickly colour that contrasted with his dark navy attire. He fell to the ground as his legs gave way. As he retched and gagged, he desperately tried to remove the image from his mind. But it had burned into his mind, showing when he closed his eyes.  And the body remained, never moving, on front of him.  He brought the whistle to his mouth and tried to blow, but no sound escaped. He tried a second and a third time, but still no luck. His forth attempt gave such a shriek that even the inner panic of his young mind was brought out of its madness. He stood. He continued to blow through the silver piece, and cried out: “MURDER! THE SOUTHWARK SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN!!!”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He walked into the room and pulled the string above him. A harsh light struck the four walls. A table sat alone in the middle. A maiden lay atop. He took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled the smoke from his mouth. He grimaced as he looked at the fifth victim to sit there in as many weeks. He returned the burning substance to his mouth and wiped his hands on his apron. He moved forward with the elegance of buffalo in a stampede.  He noted the damage already done to her and thought how his job felt obsolete. He already knew what he found find. Serial killers like routine. So do the police.
The chest already open, he discarded the knife in his hand. With no care for the body, he created a larger opening to fit his grubby hands. A quick overview told him that there was no bone damage and almost all the organs were in place and unharmed. All, except the heart.
How funny, he thought, that the murderer would steal the girls’ hearts. What an unusual character he must be. What a strange fetish he has.
He knew there was nothing different about this body compared to the rest; stolen heart, sliced neck. It was the exact same as the other four. He found himself wishing he knew the mans motive, but his mind was not good as problem solving. He only sliced people up.
“I suppose,” he muttered, “we’re not that different, you and I.”
Rubbing his hands on the stain apron once again, he left the room and turned out the light. Darkness enveloped the room. The victim quickly forgotten.