1888

Thursdays. How I hate bloody Thursdays. The moon light glistens onto the tiny cobbled streets, filled with drunken laughter. I muster up what little strength I have left and force myself into the secluded pub, just down the street. The relentless chatter inside the pub makes my head throb even harder. Not the best place to be when you’ve got a headache, a pint of whiskey isn’t going to help it either.

I sit myself down on a rigid stool right down the end of the counter. I run my scrawny fingers along the uneven surface of the counter, tapping on it softly with my grimy fingernails. I lean my head on one hand, propped up by my elbow, still continuously tapping an uneven rhythm on the counter.

“Can I help you there Sir?” I look up at the bartender, his pupils look dilated. Dark russet hair falling onto his face. I rub my right eye harshly.

“Whisky, thanks.” I answer hoarsely. The bartender looks at me doubtfully, arguing with himself if it’s a good idea to let me have anything alcoholic. I can keep down my liquor. Before I could even blink, he had returned with a glass filled halfway with beautiful auburn liquid. I swallow it all in one mouthful, wiping my mouth with my thumb.

“Keep ‘em coming please.” I request, the bartender nods slowly and brings out the whole bottle, pouring me another glass of the wonderful substance. I knock back the next glass quickly, watching the bartender dispense another drink; it spills slightly onto the counter. I raise my glass to the bartender, a silent toast before I toss down the next glass. I lick my lips greedily; the bartender hesitates once more before filling my glass again. I consume the fourth glass of whiskey.

I bring the glass down with a loud thump. My head, pounding even heavier and more agonizing than before. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, still savouring the taste of the alcohol. I run my fingers through my gritty hair and push some of it out of my face. I cough slightly and I mumble drunkenly for another glass.

“You look like you’ve had enough there.” The bartender informs me. I look up at him through bloodshot eyes.

“I’m fine, I really am.” I try and articulate, but it comes out wrong, l try to make sense but it’s slurred. The bartender raises an eyebrow at me.

“Sir, I think that is enough.” He starts to put the bottle away but I grab him by the collar.

“P-please...” I whimper quietly.

The chatter has gone down dramatically, all eyes on the bartender and me. The bartender looks at me agitatedly before removing my grip on his collar. I raise the glass; a few auburn drops still nestled at the bottom and smash it spontaneously onto the counter. Small shards of hazardous glass scatter across the counter and onto the floor. I hear the click of a gun and the bartender slowly reveals a small, burnished pistol.

“Out. I don’t want any trouble Sir.” The bartender commands me to leave. I eye the gun in his hand and take myself out of the dingy pub, staggering all the way down the street.

Thursdays, oh how I loathe Thursdays. Thursday August 31st to be exact.

I sway horribly colliding with a small shop I rub my left arm gingerly and impel myself off the hard, crumbly wall. I take large lungful of air before continuing the almost vacant street. A small number of wealthy people frown upon me as I keep myself up with a light pole. The women gawp at me disapprovingly, hurrying their small sons and daughters away from me. I am not a bad man. I never was. I’m just a lost man. I’m just a lost and lonely man.

I find myself surrounded by familiar housing and shops. I sigh pitifully as I make my way sorrowfully down the bare street. All the children tucked away in their beds, as they would be in Whitechapel. Whitechapel, how I would love to spit on its name. Whitechapel, home to the wealthy, the happy. Whitechapel, the place that holds home for Rosalie. My blood boils at the very thought of her name, nevertheless her beauty stays forever in my mind.

There she was, as elegant and as beautiful as ever. She didn’t appear saddened, she was joyous. Her porcelain face lit up at the very mention of Edward’s name. The way it used to whenever I was mentioned, whenever I was around. I left Whitechapel that night, I fled. I remember trying to stay strong when Rosalie had wed.

I know she stills lives in Whitechapel; I know she’s still blissfully happy with Edward. Children too I believe, two sons. A perfect life, a perfect ending. I know some of her friends have gone downhill, living in brothels, barely making ends meet. But not Rosalie. No, Rosalie got it all.

I could see her outside her house. Being an obedient wife, waiting to see if Edward was coming yet. Edward never really cared about Rosalie like I did. Edward’s family was poor; Rosalie was from one of the wealthiest families in London. Edward wanted Rosalie for the money; I wanted Rosalie for the love. Rosalie had always been blind to obvious things, her perfect happily ending had a few faults.

Rosalie’s clear indigo orbs focus onto the light cascading off my shoulders. She does a double take and gazes at me, shocked by my appearance. I’d become rougher since the last time she saw me, not exactly the clean cut man I once was. She lifts up the hem of her skirt gracefully, trying not to get it dirty. She walks swiftly over to where I’m standing, I don’t want her to see me close up, afraid she’ll run away. I back off into the shadows of the street.

“Robert...” she trails off miserably, she bites her pale lips nervously.

I have a longing to reach out and touch that soft, milky white skin. It looks untouched, like it had been before I left. Rosalie goes to talk again but I hush her. I wish I hadn’t downed so much whiskey. I blindly reach for Rosalie’s hand, her warmth radiates onto me. I stroke her thumb gently just like I used to. Her name still makes my blood boil, but the rest of her doesn’t. I go to lead her down the alleyway put she pulls away.

“Robert, I can’t...I don’t want to leave my children alone in the house.” She confesses. Her neatly done up hair, falling gently down onto her face, much more sophisticatedly than mine ever could.

“We’ll only be gone for a moment, I promise.” I promised her a lot of things.

Rosalie looks back at her home, but she nods as she brings her head back slowly to face me. I lead her quietly through the streets of London, avoiding loud areas. I bring her down into a small alleyway, where we first met. Rosalie’s eyes widen as she remembers the area.

“Robert, you must know I’m married-“I put a pale finger to her lips, she watches me intently. I know she can smell the liquor. I bring both my hands to her cheeks and stroke them gently before sliding them down her swan like neck. She truly was beautiful.

I snake my fingers around her neck silently and push harshly down on her neck. Rosalie gasps as she tries to break free of my ruthless grip. She tries to scream out but I tighten my grip on her neck, tighter, tighter until I can hear her trying to draw in as much breath as she possibly can. I feel drops fall onto my hand, Rosalie’s tears. She tries squirming out of my grip one last time, but Rosalie’s helpless. Just like I was. I squeeze her neck one last final time and release Rosalie from her prison.

Her lifeless body falls to the ground, I drop down to the floor also, pressing my ear down onto her chest, seeing if her hearts still beating. I can’t hear anything, nothing to tell me she’s still alive. I kiss her gently on the lips; I kiss her for what feels like a lifetime. I leave her body, lying there. Dead, outside the place we met, outside the brothel. There’s a small surprise for the world.

“Happy anniversary Rosalie.” I murmur to the corpse, she looks peaceful, even in death. Rosalie Williamson, a name that still boils my blood.

But at least her blood doesn’t flow anymore.