Cut Up Angel.
***cute Happyrape.
She shouldn’t be there, at all.
Madison Parks should be safe, back in her luxurious room, in a huge palace of a house.
But she was there, because she wanted to rebel against Daddy, and society.
She wanted to do something she’d never be allowed to do, even with all the begging in the world. She wanted to do something that would give Daddya heart attack if he ever found out.
And this was it.
She was stood, waiting, in a dark alleyway, in the ‘bad’ end of New York that she wasn’t familiar with. She wasn’t used to the setting. In her world, alleyways were just streets that were a little narrower than normal, and didn’t really lead anywhere, except to the back entrance of whatever building it was next to.
Alleyways had security guards in her world.
She looked at her silver watch, which was glimmering in the light of a street lamp from a nearby residential road.
10:23 pm.
Surely her father would have noticed the empty beds by now?
Her sister, Jessica, well, he would know that she was at a party of some sort. Some fancy gala that Madison hadn’t been invited to.
But whatever would he think about Madison?
Posh gala?
No. Not Madison’s style at all.
Dinner with a friend?
Maybe. But she’d been at the dinner table earlier, and it was no secret that Madison only ate just enough to survive.
Teenage party?
Probable. One with booze and cigarettes and maybe even the odd ecstasy tablet, most likely.
Doing something she shouldn’t be?
Definite, since she hadn’t asked to go out at all. Surely that meant that it wasn’t good?
But he’d never imagine her doing what she was about to.
“I didn’t think you’d turn up, babe.” A rough voice said. Snarled, more like.
“Of course I would.”
True. It was a dream.
The first and final night of a dream.
She was a wannabe hooker.
She didn’t look like one though. Her entire image just didn’t go with the word. She looked rich.
She was wearing a short, crimson, strapless dress, with thin, see-through tights and stilettos that matched. Her hair was clasped up, but it was too long for it, and it seemed to spill out, leaving pretty, dark blonde curls hanging loosely. Her make-up was done with too much care, for her to be a hooker. Dark eyes, soft pink lips. Pale complexion, no doubt smothered in foundation. Her products looked like they’d cost too much. Not the 99-cent stuff from the drugstore. Too pretty. Too perfect. She was wearing too much jewellery. A diamond ring. A glittery silver watch. A dainty necklace. Pearl earrings.
A magpie’s dream.
She was clutching a small, black bag. Inside – the essentials. Cell phone, wallet, pepper spray, makeup and makeup remover, a compact mirror, credit cards, and driver’s licence.
She was making her knuckles go whiter than they already were.
She slid her arm through the handle of the bag, letting it sit at the crease of her elbow. She reached behind her slowly, and started to pull down the black zipper of the red dress.
“You don’t need to do that.”
She cocked her head, confused. She was role-playing as a hooker, tonight. She had to be naked to do that, didn’t she?
Suddenly, crash. She falls back against the damp alley wall from the force that had just slammed into her.
A hand, covering perfectly painted lips.
A whispered threat, in her ear.
“Don’t move. It’ll hurt more if you do.”
A terrified teenage girl, thoughts racing through her head.
“What if?”
“Oh, dear God, please, send me a miracle.”
“Just let him take the money, the jewellery and go.”
“What’ll hurt more if I move?”
“Jessica!”
“Dad!”
“What if he’s a psychopath!”
“He must be!”
Blonde curls getting wet from a dripping pipe.
Dark tangles blocking out all lights.
“You’re just a whore.”
Pause.
“And whores don’t deserve to live.”
Panic.
“Please, sir, please. Please don’t kill me. I’m not a whore, I—“
“Shush little baby, don’t say a word.”
A singsong, mocking voice whispers.
A free hand digging in a pocket. You could hear the rummaging sound, just like a rat.
Her only hope now was that he wouldn’t cut too deep and she would be found before she collapsed.
One long cut, through the dress and down her stomach. Blood staining fabric, almost blending in, and making it look like the dress was stitching itself up.
A gasp from the pink, rosy lips.
Pain, burning out of control, like a fire that was wrapping itself around her. Burn, burn, burn. Scorch, scorch, scorch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
A stab, through the breastbone and piercing vital organs beneath.
Blood everywhere. Main arteries severed. No hope now.
A long, straight line, up one arm, and the other.
Emotions pouring with the crimson.
And ‘X’ shape over the pink, rosy lips.
Sticky fluid binding them shut, so she couldn’t open them without difficulty.
A deep cut, around the throat.
How Jack the Ripper.
The last, gasped breath.
A cut windpipe, what can you expect?
Dark blonde curls soaked in red. Milky skin, stained. Marks that even when washed away, would leave pinky orange smudges.
The killer ran, leaving the body. It can’t be long until she’s found, can it? Kids use this alleyway to get to school.
Police constable, wandering. Just on the lookout. A resident of the nearby street said she saw a young girl and a young man. Young girl in the alley, waiting. Watching the passers by.
Obviously up to something.
“Is there anybody down there?” he calls.
Not anyone alive, sir.
She’s not too far from the mouth of the dark little lane.
“Miss?” he spots her, and walks forward.
To him, in the dark, she looks like a girl who was lead on her back, sleeping on the floor in her best dress and heels.
“Miss?”
He looks down. Cut throat. Cut face. Cut stomach. Stabbed chest. Definitely dead.
Hope lost in the bloody atmosphere. Dreams flowing away with the crimson fluid.
Oh, dear God, we live among the rats, we’re not a civilised society.
“Backup, please. Backup. I’ve found a body, in the alley just off Fremont Street.”
A grainy voice replies through the walkie-talkie.
“We’ll send a team now.”
Pause.
“S’not a blonde female, late teens, wearing expensive looking stuff, is i’?”
“Yes sir.”
“Oh, shit. She’s been reported missing.”
“Under what name?”
“Miss Parks.”
“’Kay.”
He noticed the handbag, still lying in the mud.
Make up, cell phone, wallet, pepper spray, protection, driver’s licence.
Driver’s licence.
Parks, February 14th 1990, blonde, blue eyed, female, 100lb approx. Apt 284, 949 Fifth Avenue, NY.
Parks.
The missing girl.
Either, this dead girl was trying to take on Parks’ identity, and Parks was somewhere else, or Miss M Parks was dead.
Parks? Wasn’t that family a rich family?
Yes, a very rich family, sir.
They live in 5th Ave, they must be rich. Only rich people live there.
But this girl didn’t look it.
Only one word sprang to mind,
Prostitute.
Murdered by a Jack the Ripper copycat.
Sirens, disturbing the baited breath. A small child can be heard singing along.
“Nee-naw, nee-naw!”
The backup squad arrive. Chalky shapes of evidence, etched on the floor. A clean, cotton swab, gathering evidence.
Mounting disgust.
Disturbing calmness. Like it was rehearsed, planned – part of the institution.
Black body-bag. The corpse, laid inside it, is zipped up. These people won’t be the last to see her before she’s sent to be buried.
No, her father and sister have to identify the body, first.
Could it really be Madison Grace Parks?
With a dress like that? Cut so far above the knee?
With makeup like that? Just screaming ‘whore’?
Laid on a metal table, she looks oddly, in a disturbed way, beautiful.
Now that the investigators have gathered their evidence, she’s been cleaned up.
No more blood on her. Wounds sewn up, surgically. White burial shroud, that the family will change later, if it’s her. Washed hair. No more crimson mixing with the blonde. Face free of the smudged cosmetics. Glassy, staring eyes, now slipped shut.
A man and his other daughter stood outside the door. He doesn’t want her in there, but she’s desperate to see her sister one last time.
“You can go in now.” A mortician says.
“Are you sure, Jess? She might be a state.” He paused. “It may not even be Madison.”
Jessica knew that behind the translucent glass, her dead sister was sleeping. She could feel it pulsing through her veins,
“It’s going to be her. It’s Madison. She’s dead.”
Dead, dead, dead.
She didn’t reply, she opened the door.
She walked to the table. She took the cold hand in her own, just as pale, warm hand. She looked down at the shell of the human.
“Madison.”
“Oh.” Her father says, still stood by the old mortician, not wanting to see.
“It’s her. You don’t have to look Dad. It’s okay. I’ll sign the forms.”
“Thank you.”
I hereby sign that the deceased found on 16/10/2007 is Madison Grace Parks.
J. Parks.
Please state the relation you are to the deceased.
Twin sister.
Time of death; 11:15 pm, approx.
‘Exactly the same time as birth.’
Ebony casket, slowly slipping into the grave. A white marble head stone, engraved, with a name, and dates. If she’d not been reported missing, no one would’ve guessed she was Madison Parks. She’d have been buried under the name Jane Doe.
“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”
1 Peter Ch.4: V.8
Date of birth, date of death. How she was a loving sister and daughter.
Underneath the wooden cover, she was no longer wearing the shapeless gown. Instead, her sister had given the mortician’s assistant, Marie, Madison’s favourite white dress. Just past the knee, it was puffy around the skirt, but the bodice was tight. She’d been put in white stilettos, and her hair had been styled so it sat on her chest and she was lying on it. She was given red roses, as they were her favourite flower.
A priest looks sadly down at the casket.
“I think we can all agree that Madison will be dearly missed by everyone. She was a beautiful girl, and she was brought to an untimely end by a fowl being. She will not be forgotten.”
Pause for everyone to wipe their eyes.
Close family and friends throw more red roses down the six foot hole. Red contrasts black so nicely. Such funeral colours, don’t you think?
“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”
Madison Parks should be safe, back in her luxurious room, in a huge palace of a house.
But she was there, because she wanted to rebel against Daddy, and society.
She wanted to do something she’d never be allowed to do, even with all the begging in the world. She wanted to do something that would give Daddya heart attack if he ever found out.
And this was it.
She was stood, waiting, in a dark alleyway, in the ‘bad’ end of New York that she wasn’t familiar with. She wasn’t used to the setting. In her world, alleyways were just streets that were a little narrower than normal, and didn’t really lead anywhere, except to the back entrance of whatever building it was next to.
Alleyways had security guards in her world.
She looked at her silver watch, which was glimmering in the light of a street lamp from a nearby residential road.
10:23 pm.
Surely her father would have noticed the empty beds by now?
Her sister, Jessica, well, he would know that she was at a party of some sort. Some fancy gala that Madison hadn’t been invited to.
But whatever would he think about Madison?
Posh gala?
No. Not Madison’s style at all.
Dinner with a friend?
Maybe. But she’d been at the dinner table earlier, and it was no secret that Madison only ate just enough to survive.
Teenage party?
Probable. One with booze and cigarettes and maybe even the odd ecstasy tablet, most likely.
Doing something she shouldn’t be?
Definite, since she hadn’t asked to go out at all. Surely that meant that it wasn’t good?
But he’d never imagine her doing what she was about to.
“I didn’t think you’d turn up, babe.” A rough voice said. Snarled, more like.
“Of course I would.”
True. It was a dream.
The first and final night of a dream.
She was a wannabe hooker.
She didn’t look like one though. Her entire image just didn’t go with the word. She looked rich.
She was wearing a short, crimson, strapless dress, with thin, see-through tights and stilettos that matched. Her hair was clasped up, but it was too long for it, and it seemed to spill out, leaving pretty, dark blonde curls hanging loosely. Her make-up was done with too much care, for her to be a hooker. Dark eyes, soft pink lips. Pale complexion, no doubt smothered in foundation. Her products looked like they’d cost too much. Not the 99-cent stuff from the drugstore. Too pretty. Too perfect. She was wearing too much jewellery. A diamond ring. A glittery silver watch. A dainty necklace. Pearl earrings.
A magpie’s dream.
She was clutching a small, black bag. Inside – the essentials. Cell phone, wallet, pepper spray, makeup and makeup remover, a compact mirror, credit cards, and driver’s licence.
She was making her knuckles go whiter than they already were.
She slid her arm through the handle of the bag, letting it sit at the crease of her elbow. She reached behind her slowly, and started to pull down the black zipper of the red dress.
“You don’t need to do that.”
She cocked her head, confused. She was role-playing as a hooker, tonight. She had to be naked to do that, didn’t she?
Suddenly, crash. She falls back against the damp alley wall from the force that had just slammed into her.
A hand, covering perfectly painted lips.
A whispered threat, in her ear.
“Don’t move. It’ll hurt more if you do.”
A terrified teenage girl, thoughts racing through her head.
“What if?”
“Oh, dear God, please, send me a miracle.”
“Just let him take the money, the jewellery and go.”
“What’ll hurt more if I move?”
“Jessica!”
“Dad!”
“What if he’s a psychopath!”
“He must be!”
Blonde curls getting wet from a dripping pipe.
Dark tangles blocking out all lights.
“You’re just a whore.”
Pause.
“And whores don’t deserve to live.”
Panic.
“Please, sir, please. Please don’t kill me. I’m not a whore, I—“
“Shush little baby, don’t say a word.”
A singsong, mocking voice whispers.
A free hand digging in a pocket. You could hear the rummaging sound, just like a rat.
Her only hope now was that he wouldn’t cut too deep and she would be found before she collapsed.
One long cut, through the dress and down her stomach. Blood staining fabric, almost blending in, and making it look like the dress was stitching itself up.
A gasp from the pink, rosy lips.
Pain, burning out of control, like a fire that was wrapping itself around her. Burn, burn, burn. Scorch, scorch, scorch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
A stab, through the breastbone and piercing vital organs beneath.
Blood everywhere. Main arteries severed. No hope now.
A long, straight line, up one arm, and the other.
Emotions pouring with the crimson.
And ‘X’ shape over the pink, rosy lips.
Sticky fluid binding them shut, so she couldn’t open them without difficulty.
A deep cut, around the throat.
How Jack the Ripper.
The last, gasped breath.
A cut windpipe, what can you expect?
Dark blonde curls soaked in red. Milky skin, stained. Marks that even when washed away, would leave pinky orange smudges.
The killer ran, leaving the body. It can’t be long until she’s found, can it? Kids use this alleyway to get to school.
Police constable, wandering. Just on the lookout. A resident of the nearby street said she saw a young girl and a young man. Young girl in the alley, waiting. Watching the passers by.
Obviously up to something.
“Is there anybody down there?” he calls.
Not anyone alive, sir.
She’s not too far from the mouth of the dark little lane.
“Miss?” he spots her, and walks forward.
To him, in the dark, she looks like a girl who was lead on her back, sleeping on the floor in her best dress and heels.
“Miss?”
He looks down. Cut throat. Cut face. Cut stomach. Stabbed chest. Definitely dead.
Hope lost in the bloody atmosphere. Dreams flowing away with the crimson fluid.
Oh, dear God, we live among the rats, we’re not a civilised society.
“Backup, please. Backup. I’ve found a body, in the alley just off Fremont Street.”
A grainy voice replies through the walkie-talkie.
“We’ll send a team now.”
Pause.
“S’not a blonde female, late teens, wearing expensive looking stuff, is i’?”
“Yes sir.”
“Oh, shit. She’s been reported missing.”
“Under what name?”
“Miss Parks.”
“’Kay.”
He noticed the handbag, still lying in the mud.
Make up, cell phone, wallet, pepper spray, protection, driver’s licence.
Driver’s licence.
Parks, February 14th 1990, blonde, blue eyed, female, 100lb approx. Apt 284, 949 Fifth Avenue, NY.
Parks.
The missing girl.
Either, this dead girl was trying to take on Parks’ identity, and Parks was somewhere else, or Miss M Parks was dead.
Parks? Wasn’t that family a rich family?
Yes, a very rich family, sir.
They live in 5th Ave, they must be rich. Only rich people live there.
But this girl didn’t look it.
Only one word sprang to mind,
Prostitute.
Murdered by a Jack the Ripper copycat.
Sirens, disturbing the baited breath. A small child can be heard singing along.
“Nee-naw, nee-naw!”
The backup squad arrive. Chalky shapes of evidence, etched on the floor. A clean, cotton swab, gathering evidence.
Mounting disgust.
Disturbing calmness. Like it was rehearsed, planned – part of the institution.
Black body-bag. The corpse, laid inside it, is zipped up. These people won’t be the last to see her before she’s sent to be buried.
No, her father and sister have to identify the body, first.
Could it really be Madison Grace Parks?
With a dress like that? Cut so far above the knee?
With makeup like that? Just screaming ‘whore’?
Laid on a metal table, she looks oddly, in a disturbed way, beautiful.
Now that the investigators have gathered their evidence, she’s been cleaned up.
No more blood on her. Wounds sewn up, surgically. White burial shroud, that the family will change later, if it’s her. Washed hair. No more crimson mixing with the blonde. Face free of the smudged cosmetics. Glassy, staring eyes, now slipped shut.
A man and his other daughter stood outside the door. He doesn’t want her in there, but she’s desperate to see her sister one last time.
“You can go in now.” A mortician says.
“Are you sure, Jess? She might be a state.” He paused. “It may not even be Madison.”
Jessica knew that behind the translucent glass, her dead sister was sleeping. She could feel it pulsing through her veins,
“It’s going to be her. It’s Madison. She’s dead.”
Dead, dead, dead.
She didn’t reply, she opened the door.
She walked to the table. She took the cold hand in her own, just as pale, warm hand. She looked down at the shell of the human.
“Madison.”
“Oh.” Her father says, still stood by the old mortician, not wanting to see.
“It’s her. You don’t have to look Dad. It’s okay. I’ll sign the forms.”
“Thank you.”
I hereby sign that the deceased found on 16/10/2007 is Madison Grace Parks.
J. Parks.
Please state the relation you are to the deceased.
Twin sister.
Time of death; 11:15 pm, approx.
‘Exactly the same time as birth.’
Ebony casket, slowly slipping into the grave. A white marble head stone, engraved, with a name, and dates. If she’d not been reported missing, no one would’ve guessed she was Madison Parks. She’d have been buried under the name Jane Doe.
“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”
1 Peter Ch.4: V.8
Date of birth, date of death. How she was a loving sister and daughter.
Underneath the wooden cover, she was no longer wearing the shapeless gown. Instead, her sister had given the mortician’s assistant, Marie, Madison’s favourite white dress. Just past the knee, it was puffy around the skirt, but the bodice was tight. She’d been put in white stilettos, and her hair had been styled so it sat on her chest and she was lying on it. She was given red roses, as they were her favourite flower.
A priest looks sadly down at the casket.
“I think we can all agree that Madison will be dearly missed by everyone. She was a beautiful girl, and she was brought to an untimely end by a fowl being. She will not be forgotten.”
Pause for everyone to wipe their eyes.
Close family and friends throw more red roses down the six foot hole. Red contrasts black so nicely. Such funeral colours, don’t you think?
“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”