Ripping Dreams



Darkness.

There is pain in your leg. Why? Had you fallen? Oh yes, now you remembered. You had fallen and twisted your hip last week-end. That was right. Hurt like the devil. That bitch.

The blessed darkness soon gives way to slate shadows, dim light barely penetrating the fog. The gray cobblestones are slick, but all the rain this gritty sewer of a city had to give could not wash the corruption from its streets. The late summer swelter had given way to evening mists as the roadways cooled.

The stench of Them was everywhere, overpowering the filth in the gutters, the sewage on the road. You walk on, hoping to reach the sanctuary of your rooms without being attacked by one of Them. Pulling the collar of your greatcoat closer you hurry on through the winding streets.

One of Them looks at you, her eyes red with drink, and who knows what else. She steps out, onto the curb. You move away, but she beckons after you like the slattern she is. Her speech is slurred, strong drink or narcotics having robbed her of most of her wits, a mouth full of bad teeth proof of her lack of judgment, and she now seeks to weaken you, rob you of your strength, rip the manly seed from within you, leaving her womanly poison in it’s place. She curls her fingers about the wool collar of your vestment. You flinch in lurching horror, which she conveniently mistakes for shyness.

Her white apron shines like a streetlamp against her coal black dress reminding you of the horrors lurking beneath. The world was certainly gray, but there is nothing gray in the ghastly intent she represents. You can feel her corruption taint your flesh at her touch, skin literally crawling with revulsion.

You try to move away, but she has you by the coat, drawing you closer to her. Like a spider with a fly, you think, she would ensnare you with her wiles, lure you to your everlasting doom. Draw you into her maw, and eat you alive. That's what she wants. Her breath is redolent of bathtub gin, her hand reaches down and probes low upon your person. You jump back, out of her reach, your outrage and humiliation at a fever pitch. Your ears burn with humiliation, as your breath catches in your throat.

She leans back, against the filthy wall, and lifts her petticoats, then her skirt, exposing her fragrant weapon to the night air. Your doom now reveals itself to you, the smell thickening in your nasal cavity, just under the brain.

You have only one chance to survive, only one slim hope of saving yourself from this devil.

So you thrust your hands into her creased throat, catching her off guard. Pinning her to the wall makes her struggles less effective, and with a sharp shove she bangs her head on the brick, the dull thud thrilling you as she ceases her struggles altogether. You turn her head to the left as you slide her to the trash-strewn ground, the blade you always carry in your coat pocket for just such an occasion slicing deeply into her throat, from right to left, so the blood sprays away from you, like always. You swiftly cut through the harlot's garments, exposing her vile weapon, then cut into the peritoneum, exposing the devil’s intestinal tract, and rapidly separated the womb from its fleshly frame. Here was your proof, proof of her dark magics against you. You remove the womb with efficient strokes of your blade, and wrap it in her clean white apron, tucking the grisly bundle beneath your greatcoat in order to get it home.

You seek sanctuary then, and the darkness is your friend. Your rooms are but minutes away, and so you step into the shadows, into the darkness of Whitechapel’s streets.

Sweet darkness.


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