Take Out

Take Out
By Stephen A Abell

Number of Words: 499



T’was the girls who fetched me. Poor buggers are frightened silly. I canny blame ‘em with a madman carvin’ ‘em up. Poor bloody Mary, what a sight he left behind this time. I thank God for my blindness sometimes, though my gift often makes up for it.

Me gift brought the girls t'me. For I’d told many o’them their futures. I even told that Long Liz ‘er future was bleak if she continued with ‘er menfolk. Looks like she did’ne believe me. Now Mary’s gone over, ‘ope I can ‘elp t’stop ‘im before ‘e kills again.

Me fingers told me the object Sally’d given me were a knife. It were nothin’ like me cookin’ knives. This were sharper by far. The end o’the handle was oval in shape an’ about an inch wide. It was a good fist in length, sittin’ nicely in me hand. It seemed to be wrapped in a criss-cross pattern which felt like leather. The top edge o’the blade ran straight while the blade itself curved slowly upwards from the hilt. Near the tip, the curve became defined. I damn near cut me finger off inspecting it. Later I counted a good twelve new scars. This steel were made for slicing flesh.

I took a deep breath and sought out me calm place inside. The place I go when the vision takes ‘old o’me. But it’s more’an the sight, all me senses are with me.

Horror. I feel it first, then shock, and fright. All the emotions ‘is victims felt.

The darkness opens up into a murky Whitechapel backstreet.

Rivers of blood flow over me eyes turnin’ me sight red.

A man stands afore me; ‘e’s wearin’ a leather apron.

Unseen I watch as he goes quickly about ‘is work.

The faces o’the women change as I watch.

I can smell a strangeness in the air. It’s rich an’ dark. Different coloured sands flash in me mind, along with one word “spice”..

I do’ne know what it means, but everythin’ in me visions means somethin’.

Under the heavy smell I make out cookin’ smells.

The madman’s pullin’ out the organs an’ slidin’ ‘em into a bag. It looks like a doctors bag, but I think it’s only for usefulness and not because o’profession.

At the end of the road is a carriage, waitin’ for ‘im. It’s driver isn’t English, ‘is skin ‘as a yellow tinge.

Smoke?

Mist?

Steam! clouds me vision, an’ I’m in a large hot kitchen. “Leather apron” is ‘ere; ‘e’s puttin’ the stolen meat into strange rounded pans.

The smell’s enticin’.

Within’ minutes the dish is prepared and on its way to the table, an’ what a table. There must be over a ‘undred people ‘ere.

Not one of ‘em ‘as this ‘ellish meal.

The plate is set at the ‘ead o’the table.

God please say I’m wrong …

Slowly Queen Victoria stabs ‘er fork into the mess and pulls out a juicy piece o’meat, and savagely pops it in ‘er mouth.



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