A Night to Shock You

         Blood. Why do human males always contain so much blood? It is a thought I have often pondered. When idleness sets in my hands and the frigid winter air settles over my body, my mind always turns to thoughts such as these. I have watched many a man bleed to death. I have been a witness as the purplish blue became infused into his still lips, his eyes glazing over with an invisible curtain of film. Death is truly something to behold. It has always managed to ensnare me in its web and keep my interest.

         Not as much as blood though. Death is something imagined. Blood is tangible. I’ve been able to study how the substance (thick and oozing at times, then amazingly smooth) escapes its captive body. The feel of it is always warm when it comes out. But it is never too long before it becomes cold. Then it loses its appeal… and I move on.

         I turn to my window, gazing at the falling snow. It is almost that time of the day again. The time where I leave my room, to pursue my interests of blood and death. I can’t help but smile wryly, as I press my fingertips against the cold window. Ever since I was a child, I have been bored. There never seemed to be much that excited me. My parents praised me for my stoic and quiet nature. I was how a proper young girl should be. I still find myself shaking my head think of them. They were too fanciful, the both of them. They disgusted me then and they do to this day. It would explain why I never see them unless I need to do so. A monster such as me has to keep up appearances of normalcy, after all.

         I carefully close the heavy curtains to my window, holding my breath as the dust flies. I can’t stand here and let my mind roll over such philosophical occurrences. There was work to be done, needs to be met. Padding to chest, I carefully lift the cold lock into my hands. Searching my pockets for the key, I feel my brow furrow. Knowing that I’ve left the key out loose again, I growl in slight frustration.

         Stalking to my vanity and rifling through sheets of paper, I have a sudden thought. Who did I despise more, my mother or my father? Such erratic thoughts were not uncommon for me, especially when agitated.

         Pausing a moment to think, it is not long before I have determined it to be my father. I think of the man now and my eyes narrow, a hiss ready to escape my lips. I would admit him to be a handsome man. He was one of much class, of charisma and grace. I knew him for what he was though. My father is a man of little morals and a low taste in women. I do not mean my mother when I speak of this. I speak of others. I knew of the women who come out only at the midnight hour, with vibrant rouge and painted lips. Father believes himself to be clever. In his own right, I suppose he is. I would say my mother was a fool to stay with him. But then again, I also know that turning a blind eye to an unpleasing sight is just another way to survive.

         I have managed to find the small key. My thoughts turn away from my father. Returning to the chest, I open it and lift up the clothing. They have become my dearest of friends this past winter. They were the perfect guise for someone pretending to be a whore.

         Even friendlier is what I hide beneath my clothing.

         Smirking, I reach into my chest and pull out my dagger. The light in my room consists of the pale candlelight and the bluish tinge of the moon. It made the dagger luminous. Or would the better word be ominous? The weapon had been the only witness to my actions. I carefully test it for sharpness and find it adequate. Oh how I loved this metal. The way that it felt as it slid into someone with ease and only to come back with my favorite color dripping off of its surface. It was one of the few objects I called beloved.

         I shake my head. Time is running short. I had to stake my claim before another woman did. Quickly I changed into my costume, lacing myself up in the corset securely. The dagger is put into a hidden sheath I had sewn into the corset, hidden just so. My outfit on, I applied my rouge and painted my lips a rosy red. All that was left was my hair. Fashioning it simply, I stare at the figure in the mirror. The woman I see is not too homely. With wide blue eyes and full lips, I look like the most innocent of angels. At least that was how my late husband described me.

         A sigh escapes my lips. My poor husband. Such a sad and simple creature he was. He really should have been able to recognize the hazard he had married. Being one of more militaristic principles and a lieutenant in the navy, he should have been able to see the signs: the way I made minimal efforts to be social; how I recoiled from men in general, despising their actions. How a hard glint and hatred would come into my eyes whenever he called me by one of his pet names. Yet he chose to marry me anyway. I pitied him, I really did.

         For a few weeks I kept my silence. I said not a word. He thought me to be shy, demure. I was anything but. I was plotting, calculating. I eventually began to sweeten towards him. Feigning my interest in him, pretending to be enamored by him. I shared my bed and body with him, as much as I hated to. I had to convince him that I was in love with him. When I knew he had settled his estate to come to me when he died, it was then that I acted. My first kill had been my husband. I had waited until he slept. Then, with the utmost care, I had laid a pillow over his face. Smothering him had seemed like the best course of actions. I had to hold on tight though. He was stronger than I was and it had been all I could do to keep the pillow securely there.

         After what felt like an eternity, his flailing became sluggish. I held my breath as his body became stiff. Only when I was sure he was not breathing, did I remove the pillow. Pressing my ear against his chest, I heard no beating. I had extinguished the light from my husband. And it had been a glorious feeling indeed.

Staring into the looking glass, my face complete and my dark brown hair piled somewhat haphazardly on my head, I deemed myself ready. Rising from my vanity seat, I hurried out of the house. None of the servants would miss me. If they did, they would simply shake their heads. They had always fancied me a bit off. A young woman with strange ways, they would say. Wouldn’t hurt a fly though, they would say. I can only snicker when I hear them. I’ve truly mastered the art of deceit.

         Killing my husband had brought me something I had never felt before. Joy. Pure and absolute joy was bestowed upon me when I killed him. It wasn’t because I disliked him more than anyone else. He had simply been my experiment, to see how I felt. I had dreamt of killing before. The thoughts of extinguishing the light in someone’s eyes had thrilled me. A few weeks after ridding myself of a husband, I began to crave the feeling of joy once more. For months, I agonized over my desires. Then … an idea  had struck me.

         What if I was able to kill any man I wished to? My mind had raced with the thought. I began to think back to my father and his dark nightlife. I had heard him mutter before, about whores stealing his money. He never spoken about it aloud, but I had gathered clues to know that he had done these dealings at inns and taverns. Places where no respectable man would be caught. If they were found there, then they were shamed and shown contempt. A man who had sought the pleasure of flesh could die in an inn and no one would care. Why? Because it meant he couldn’t have been a good man if he had been seeking a whore. I had enough beauty to me to reel them in. Enough lies on my tongue to trick them. And above all else, I had enough cruelty in me to kill them when they least expected it.

         Once I am out on an open street, I stretch tall. The feathery snow is falling softly, making everything look like a frozen city. People are walking, there footprints disappearing just as quickly as they appear because of the snow. I make my way past them, to a place that is not as crowded, and for good reason. Whoever wants to be caught in the bad part of this place at night? I can see others dressed as I am. Many of the women are older, their teeth rotting and their faces showing the wear from their younger days. They always say that prostitutes age more quickly. I would never know. I always killed my customers before they could have their way with me. Oh, I played a number of tricks on them to be sure. I spoke soft words to them when they escorted me to a more private place. I laid gentle hands and soft lips on them, to make them believe I was harmless. I managed a few blushes even, to make some of them think I was new to this game. Just when I knew they were ready for more, when their eyes turned feral and their breath came out quick; I would strike.

         The expressions on their faces were always different. Some would stare at me in horror, disbelief the last look in their eyes. Others would be shocked or angered. The angry ones always amused me the most. They would use their last breath to call me as many names as they could think of, cursing me until they finally gave out. I usually stayed there a few hours, giving the illusion that I was doing what I had been paid for. The blood that pooled from their bodies always looked like a small red lake, still and calm. If I felt particularly impish, I would allow myself to let my fingers glide across the surface.

         Then, when I knew I had to, I would leave. I would return home and clean myself up. A glass of wine would come next and I’d finally relax, enjoying the fruits of my labor.

         Coming to where I usually stayed until someone came by, I nod gravely to the ones already gathered. The women nod back, though most are wary. They are wary of me. They know a snake when they see one. It simply makes me smile at them. It causes me less trouble, if they are afraid. Some have had to be taught that I was not a woman to be taken lightly. Those lessons usually ended any problems I may have possibly had.

         Breathing in deeply, I let the bracing air cleanse me. My thoughts and purpose are clearer now that I’m here. I stare up at the sky, watching as the snow falls. I know that I am not immortal. One day, I will be caught. Eventually one of the girls I’m standing with will be brave enough to speak of me with a constable. It will only be a matter of time then until they find me out. Some days I become frightened when I think of what may come. Others I feel nothing. Tonight, I simply feel … lucky.

         A hand touches my shoulder. I turn and see that it is one of the men who frequent this area. I’ve heard from the others that he is particularly abrasive. Usually he only takes those with experience. I guess tonight he wants someone young. He smiles down at me and I can see he is a handsome man. He begins to speak to me. His words are dripping with charm. For a moment I simply stare at him, thinking. After a heartbeat of silence, he leans down and whispers in my ear, “So love, would you please give me a night of pleasure? Maybe a surprise or two?”

         At his words, I can’t help but chuckle into his ear, “Oh… I’ll certainly give you a night that will shock you.” He grins and takes my hand. I know where we’re going. I glance back at the others and give an honest grin. They look at each other in horror. Some are quickly crossing themselves. They are probably all praying for the man. Good that they are. After all… he’s not going to be on this Earth much longer.