The street lights did not illuminate the gloomy courtyard on Berner Street that night. Crows crowded the buildings, staring through their beady eyes down at the man in the long black coat. It was late. There was very little people about. He was glad. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt his rendezvous.
My hand was pressed against her throat. I held her body close to mine as her quickened breath bore through her chest and pounded the hand I used to cup her breast. She was an ugly woman. No teeth. Straw-like hair. I pitied her living body, I really did. I knew then that I was going to make her beautiful. There is beauty in death, isn’t that what Shakespeare taught us? Removing my hand from her breast I knelt down to open my case, my hand still resting on her neck as I pulled her down with me.
The knife felt cold in my hand, the hard steel pressing against my palm. My mind was racing. Her breath stilted. The knife, that beautiful knife, glided across her throat with expertise. Oh I knew what I was doing. The blood, deep red. Oh the blood. I pushed the blade deeper into her soft delicate skin. The guttural sounds emanated from her toothless mouth like sounds of praise, urging me on. She was dead, I was sure of that, and in death she was more valuable, more enticing to me than in life. Now she could not say no, like so many others had. The blade was my own heart, opening her up and making her my own. How beautiful she was as she lay slumped against the wall, her legs wide; an open invitation.
Opening my case once again, I retrieved my second knife, just as stunning as the first. I kissed her cheek, her neck. The knife grazed the tender areas of her thighs, leaving a trail of crimson behind it. I could hear her whispering my name, begging for me to pleasure her. Her heart fluttered in her loins, beckoning me to penetrate the skin. I wanted her to wait. I took a step back from her. Taking in the scent of her body. She stunk, the smell of her alcohol-ridden body mixing with the liquid sewage of the bustling town outside. I imagined how they would feel about me, my relationship with her. They wouldn’t care, she was a whore. A peasant, she lacked class. In death I could make her someone. People would talk about her. People would know her name, but they wouldn’t know mine. They wouldn’t know my genius.
My knife lay on her exposed navel. I contemplated how I would open her up. The blood that had spilled from her neck was now dry. I was beginning to crave it. I wanted to feel its warmth on my cold hands. She wanted me to hurry. She screamed now. I pressed the knife hard against her lips, followed by a kiss. She screamed louder. The crows on the rooftops screeched with her. I needed to do it soon, she was beginning to come alive again, a new one in her womb. I needed to stop it. I pushed the knife into her lower abdomen. I was just beginning when I heard the harrowing neigh of a horse pulling a carriage. Someone was coming. If they saw me now they wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t know what I was doing or why. They wouldn’t know that I loved her rotting body. I was saving her. They don’t know. They’ll never know. You don’t know. Leanne Scott