London Falling

Earth-bound blood angel
Sweet cradle of the living
One hand could reach into your soul
And crush your flair for giving.

31 August 1888

Today I defiled all that had been taught to me as a schoolboy. As of yet, I have no regrets. We shall see as the day progresses.

Twenty-five years ago on this very day, my mother died. I would, ordinarily, offer ornamental words and phrases such as passed into God’s arms, or ascended to the glory of heaven. Such expressions would suit me. However, I believe neither of that foul creature that was my mother. I walked in the front of my mother’s funeral procession with an arm full of dyed black ostrich feathers. I was chosen over the mute boy hired to walk in this position. I was so much more somber, I overheard my father say. The procession traveled west on Chesterfield Road, the wind traveled east. For one full hour I was drenched in the stink of the disease that consumed my mother. Now and then I would have to suppress an eerie grin at the knowledge that she was finally dead.

Back to the day’s events though, I’ll tire you no longer with tales of my childhood, dear diary, there will be sufficient time for that later. The air was thick and damp this eve as I strode the streets of Whitechapel. Having just finished my nightly duties at London Hospital I made way to the old Ten Bells. I searched the pub with most discriminating eyes on this particular evening. I sought a woman with auburn hair and eyes the color of the sea, with ample hips and a mother’s gait. If her name could be Emma that would make it perfect. I saw her enter the pub and immediately knew that she was the one; she was my Emma. Oh diary, you should have seen her face! Fine features and slender lips, it was the face of a proper English lady. Though I am quite sure she was no less accessible than the other ladies that patronized this establishment.

We went outside for a walk in the night air. I was so tempted to touch her; I knew I had to wait for the right time. She walked barely a pace ahead and smiled coquettishly at me over her shoulder. Even though she was forty if she was a day, she was so sweet to behold. I almost felt a tinge of regret for my morbid intentions. I asked her name. She replied after a short pause, Polly. After a brief inquiry as to the pause, she admitted that she lied. Shame on her. She said that I seemed like a respectable gent and she could tell me the truth. The truth was her name was Mary Ann; she was recently displaced from the Lambeth workhouse. I agreed, however, to address her as Polly. What a woman we had here. I watched her hips swing as she led me down Buck’s Row and wondered if children were once cradled within those hips. She denied having children but I knew this was no maiden before me. We stopped in front of a stable gate as I took her hand and brought her close to me. Her stench was familiar. So many street ur chins make their way to the Royal London Hospital with that odor that permeates their hair and clothing. It is the smell of the unclean tramps and roguish waste that litter the streets of Whitechapel and Spitalfields. I pulled her down to the ground and held her dirty face with one hand as I released her from this world with the other. I hiked up her skirt, determined to find a soul deep inside her. She gurgled and spit as I plunged my knife into her belly. I wonder what my mother would think of me now. No matter to me, she cannot stop me now.