I am hoping that the rib shattering binding inflicted by my corset will be good practise for the hangman’s noose that will soon be wound around my delicate neck. I have committed a crime that goes beyond the farthest reaches of heinous, and for it I will be hanged. No one can or will ever understand this, through all of history no one will understand my lament.

Shadows dripped delicately down the walls; people moved in a loud and boisterous manner in order to drown out the furious shadows that coated the walls, making such a quiet noise it pierced the heinous din. People know it is impossible to silence the shadows, but it is possible to drown them out. No place knows this better than Whitechapel in London. If one permits the darkness’ roars then one permits the shadows to conquer. Boots clatter easily as they stride down the street, women harping, hawking their wares, their bodies. These women are unfortunates, extras, fallen. These women are whores. Whitechapel is clearly not an area for women of any sort of standing, especially at night. The time was just after midnight in Whitechapel, there were no women of any sort of background here there were all safe and sound at home of course.

So, the woman who slid icily down the backstreets of London at midnight was assumed unfortunate and ignored—left to be devoured by the shadows that were always greedy for a human sacrifice. Her walk was not imposing, though it was hasty, someone who was interested might have suggested that she was walking in a manner that suggested that she was thoroughly disgusted with her surroundings. Her steps were quick and light and she swiftly vanished from the mind as soon as she was no longer visible in the oddly busy midnight streets. Nothing of her remained as she hurried down the street. The dark edges of her skirt swept the street only lightly, and she was gone.

---

“Murders are not something talked about by ladies in polite company.” Her aged face seemed to have been made of a soft sort of clay at some point, and it was though someone had grabbed at the bottom of it and stretched it out, all of her features were long, and thin, stretched out in a pompous, ridged sort of manner. The ladies she spoke to were likely not beyond eighteen years at the most aged, and as the older woman swept out of the room again their arrogant chatter returned to murder, the disgusting appearance of avian creatures erupted from the chatter. These murders could never touch them, and so to speak of them was romantic and dangerous, not morbid and horrific.

Lady Anne was beside herself in excitement as she spoke about what she had heard about spinning a tale about the gruesome murder in Whitechapel, Lady Elizabeth on the other hand looked horrified, and rather like she was going to throw up, as she kept bringing her handkerchief to her face, and squealing ‘Good heavens!’ Though her lack of any sort of substance and sincerity had Lady Emily holding in something that appeared to be an extremely inappropriate laugh, and Lady Victoria looked absolutely bored with the entire scene, she imagined herself above drawing room gossip.

Anne’s voice seemed scratchy and fearsome, as she reported what her father, someone who was high up in the legal system it seemed, had told her about a murder in Whitechapel, Anne had always seemed tasteless and morbid with her new money, yet for some reason the women could not keep themselves from listening violently. They delicately sipped tea the way they were trained to do, the only sound really competing with Anne’s theatrical voice was the harsh sound of a tea cup rattling on its saucer as Emily held in her laugh dedicated to Elizabeth’s terribly obnoxious pudgy face. The story was no different from Anne’s usual fare though, and Victoria usually assumed that Anne invented these stories to make her own new money seem more edgy and fashionable. As far as Victoria was concerned it just made Anne seem bland and very unladylike.

“Her name,” continued Anne with something that would not have been out of place in an auditorium, that was certainly too loud for Emily’s drawing room. “Was Mary Ann Nichols, and she was a fallen woman with brown hair and eyes. She was rather violently killed by a slash across her throat, and stab wounds to her chest!” There was something grotesque about the victorious way that Anne told her horrific story to the rest of her company.

“Now really,” protested Elizabeth, jumping up and fanning herself furiously, looking rather pale, and even a shade of light greenish grey. “You are the most wicked and cruel girl I know, Anne.” Elizabeth strode towards the door and leaned against it’s frame, mechanically deciding whether it was more vulgar for her to leave the women she had assigned to be company with, or to listen to such terrible tales. Her finishing school had never trained her to deal with situations like this and she was having a difficult time coming up with a solution because of this. Emily seemed torn between mediating and shouting at both of her guests. Trying diplomacy first Emily pursed her lips that seemed a little too red for a young woman of her age, then she spoke firmly to her two renegade guests.

“Oh Elizabeth, do stop being so dramatic, and Anne stop telling your horrific stories here, no one here has any interest in hearing about tired old prostitutes being killed in the East End, it happens all the time, there is nothing novel about that!”

Emily was very wrong though, someone was very interested in the murder of the prostitute in the East End. Though the girl was not about to reveal herself. After all, that would be most unladylike.

The girls continued their tea, talking in something of a monotone about topics befitting ladies of their standards. Things like gentleman callers, recent betrothals, and how terrible other girls their age were looking. Conversation was featureless, and the young women scarcely even noticed that they were speaking out loud. They were simply making noises to appease their mothers, and because they did not know what else to do. Except Anne, who seemed to be still pouting about being told off by her hostess, she could only imagine what her mother would say after she heard about this little disgrace. It didn’t take much to be kicked out of proper society. Anne tossed her blonde hair violently, and tried to incorporate herself into the conversation, if not for herself than for her family’s honour. Anne glanced at the other girls each in turn, and noticed only Victoria was not speaking, instead she was gazing lightly out the window, a black lacy gloved hand delicately placed on her long white neck, and her black hair tied up dramatically behind her head. Anne couldn’t help a strange shudder looking at Victoria, though she couldn’t explain why. Noticing eyes upon herself, the dark haired girl glowered at Anne and stood up, sweeping distractedly towards the window. Emily and Elizabeth scarcely seemed to notice, but Anne was chilled, as felt as though she may be enchanted in some way.

It was as though the entire scene had been turned into a moving photograph, the scene seemed rigid and stark. The sharp, aristocratic features of Victoria’s face, as she gazed hazily out of the darkened window were beautiful in a horrific way. She looked at the heavily shaded sun like it was some sort of monster, something out to destroy her pure white porcelain skin. Victoria looked furiously serene, blue eyes like daggers cutting nothing. Anne hated this feeling and tried to ignore the frozen Victoria for the jovial warmth of Emily and Elizabeth, the task proved impossible, as, even though Anne was not looking at the cold it still clawed at her back.

When the clay faced old woman entered again the world seemed to return to it’s natural state. The time for tea was over, and the girls were to accompany their mothers home. As Anne tossed her white blonde hair from her face she noticed that despite the still beating warmth of autumn Victoria had put on a full, sweeping black coat, and a large vulgar hat that shaded her entire face from the sky. It was hardly the season nor the time; however no one said a word. Anne could not think of anything to say either, and so she proceeded with the customary good byes, and watched as the other two young women were swept off with their gracious mothers and escorts in tow.

Perhaps when these words are read people will not believe them and I shall stay free forever. I do not fear the noose; I fear for your sake the noose will do me no harm at all.