Yours Truly

Yours Truly

                A man of about twenty years of age paced his destitute apartment. Water leaks ran down the walls, leaving brown streaks stark against the white walls, and a strong smell of mildew hung around in the humid summer air. The man ran his hands through his oily black hair, pulling on it slightly. His skin was sallow and his clothes were in as much disrepair as his house. His jacket smelled like sour sweat, his pants clung to his sweaty legs. With his hole-ridden socked foot, he kicked the dresser, holding back a yelp of pain as the hard wood came in contact with his foot.

                A few minutes passed as he continued to pace, threatening to run down the hardwood flooring of his house. He only stopped to watch a cat with orange patchy fur climbed into his window. “Boss,” the man whispered, running towards the cat, picking it up. He ran his hands over the cats matted fur, a few fleas jumping onto his arms, biting him. “I don’t like this place, B-boss. There are so many bad p-people.” He spoke slowly to even out his stutter. The cat mewled in response, purring in his arms. “Th-those w****s were turning tricks again. I was on my way home and they s-stood there waiting for the Devil to purge their body. They will b-burn for their indecency, Boss.” The cat jumped out of his arms and out the window, leaving the man to wallow in his loneliness.

 

                The man walked down the street, body soaked in sweat from working in a factory. Kids were screaming in delight as they chased each other and the men stood in front of the houses smoking cigars. His body became rigid as he turned the corner. Whitechapel. This street was notorious for its w****s and opium addicts. The man drew in his jacket, despite the sweltering heat. He felt safer in his jacket, impervious to the sin that soaked the streets.

                “Hello, luv,” a woman rasped out, grabbing his forearm. He pulled back, repulsed. The rouge running down her face, her teeth eroded with sin. “You look lonely.” She rubbed at the lapels of his jacket seductively, oblivious to the disgust the man showed. “For a few pence, I can make you a lot less lonely.” The man pushed her away and ran down the street, the woman’s mocking cackle following him all the way to his apartment.

                He yanked off his jacket as though it had burned him, throwing it onto the floor. He sank down, his back against the door. “Do not prostitute thy d-daughter, to cause her to be a w***e; lest the land f-fall to whoredom, and the land become full of wickedness,” he mumbled. “And the land b-become full of wickedness.” His voice grew louder. He began repeating the end of the phrase over and over, getting louder and louder. The orange cat sat and watched as he fell into a ritual of rocking back and forth, saying those words as if they comforted him like a mother would.

                Hours passed before he stopped his odd behavior, he lay on the floor, sobs racking through his body. Through his tear glistened eyes; he looked up at the cat, which had not moved since his episode had begun. “B-b-boss,” he stuttered out, reaching for the cat. Finally mobilizing, the cat walked up to the poor man, stopping right in front of his face. The man caressed its fur, sending the cat on edge. Swiftly the cat scratched the man’s neck, running out the window. “B-boss?” the man cried, his hand covering the scratch. His heart sank as blood slipped through his fingers. He got up to inspect his cut in the grimy mirror. He knew what he must do.

 

                He walked down the street, the cool summer air blowing his jacket (a separate one that was not soiled). His walk was full of purpose. He was punished for his sins, Boss made sure he was. He felt clean again, the evil left his body. He walked up to a group of ladies of the night and waited for them to notice him. One woman, about thirty years of age staggered up to him. “Good evening,” she smiled, the smell of liquor wafting off of her and singeing the hair in the man’s nose. A cruel smile slinked across his face.

                “You’re p-perfect.”

 

                They stood in a dark alley, the woman kissing at his neck, a grimace painted on the man’s face. The woman suddenly jumped back, blood soaking her ratted clothes. She tried to run, but the man grabbed her wrist. Grasping her neck tightly, he pushed her against the wall. Unable to breath and call for help, the woman flailed around, trying to free herself from his grip. He drew a blade along her stomach again; blood trickled from the new wound. She looked at the man with pleading eyes, tears and snot running down her face. Her heart began to sputter as he ran the blade across her abdomen again and again. “For the life of a creature is in the b-blood, and I have given it to you to m-make atonement for yourselves on the altar; it is the b-blood that makes atonement for one’s life,” he chanted. “It is the blood.” He said the last part dreamily.

He grabbed the woman’s hair and gave one last swipe of the blade across her neck. She fell to the ground, grasping her neck. The blood oozed out of her neck, gargling in her throat as she tried to collect air. The man stood there and watched as life drifted from the woman’s body. She lay limp in the dirty street. He grabbed an old bottle that someone carelessly threw away and scooped the blood into the bottle. It is the blood that makes atonement for one’s life. He took pliers out of his pocket and opened her mouth. Placing the pliers on one of her front teeth, he pulled. The tooth came out easily and with a satisfying crack. He put the tooth in his pocket and pulled out four more teeth, each more satisfying than the next. He sensed the morning would come soon, so he let the woman lay there to be cooked in the hot summer sun. He strolled down the street, back to his apartment, with blood soaked clothes, holding a bottle and the knife. His prized possessions, his first salvation.

                He sat at the shaky table in his apartment due to one leg being slightly lower than the rest. A piece of parchment lay in front of him. He dipped his quill into the bottle but found that it was much harder to write in blood than he thought. Getting up, he retrieved an ink well. Sitting down, he dipped his quill in the ink, red dripping off of it. He wiped the excess ink off and began to write. As he wrote the first few words, he felt pressure around his ankle. He looked down to see the orange cat rubbing against his leg, purring. A happy smile fell on the man’s face as he looked at the parchment and the first two words he had written down.

                Dear Boss,

Author's Note

I was thinking about Jack the Ripper and felt inspired to write something. Though, I kind of combined him with Gein and Son of Sam. It only seemed fitting that Jack be obsessed with Leviticus. Constructive criticism please.

Reviews

[MR_BERG]

I felt sorry for the guy at first. He felt like someone caught at the wrong place, at the wrong time. When the cat punished him, I knew he had problems. The stutter was used well because it only applied to specific words for effect, rather than allowing it to confuse the story.

The teeth pulling was outstanding. I could hear the cracking teeth, and had to look away from the page.

Good work.

[Wolfwind]

I loved how the roll of the cat, was almost like a non-verbal analogy to the devil. The man being seen as one who's very life revolves around making the cat happy. A unique twisting tale. much enjoyed.

Aaron

[Vanessa Rico]

WOW! This was really dark! While I was reading, I got chills up my arm, because this guy really freaked me out. I loved how you portray the man as using the Bible to confirm his actions, which my parents often did. The cat added a bit of mystery for me...it made me wonder if the man was truly crazy or if the cat was a demon of some kind! Great work: well-written, great details/descriptions. This was definitely a spine-tingling story for sure!

[The Analog Kid]

"His jacket smelled like sour sweat,(;) his pants clung to his sweaty legs.

Too many sentences start with "he" and use "he."

[compositionc]

This reminds me incredibly so of this episode of Criminal Minds (Sex, Birth, and Death). I liked it, though.

[Spookers]

Well written. Nice detail.

[Matthew Smith]

This was morbid, dark, but entertaining; what's more is that you didn't seem to go out of your way to shock the reader with gore, which is a plus, since many people writing on a similar subject would probably go over-the-top with it. It's pretty obvious that you were thinking of Jack the Ripper--or so was my guess, before I had read your author's note. I was fairly amused to see someone writing on him, as I hadn't seen anyone else do so yet.

I didn't run across any technical issues in reading it, so good job there, too. I don't think I can really fault anything major in this write. It could, though, be expanded into something bigger. On another note, you probably should have depicted his stutter a wee more prominently in common speech--like when the w***e came to him. Something like "Y-you're p-p-perfect." You used the word "chanting" to describe the sentences he said whilst, ah, dealing with the prostitute--it might be a good idea to change that. A whole lot of words to chant, if you catch my drift, for such a short action scene.

Given the shortness of the piece, you did a great job depicting such a deranged, troubled man.

Nice write, good job.