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The Shadow from Whitechapel: A homage to Morrisey, Alan Moore and so many others.

The Shadow from Whitechapel: A homage to Morrisey, Alan Moore and so many others.

The strolling in the nights have become more and more desirable. My name is just that, a promise I had made to myself, an oath of blood and revenge against everything.

Oh she looks so tired. My mouth slit in blood and white, and I wonder how she follows my ill advice. My gloves caressing the skin that im about to reshape, remold. The funniest part being how they want it, they desire it, they never refuse me.

And I whisper as my tools sing in my fingers, as the dim light shivers against them. I don’t care if its late, and I don’t care if you are lost for now I have found you.

Oh, she looks so tired. But tonight, she presumes too much.

Too much, too much.

The blade talks as the skin becomes crimson, as I feel a shiver of pleasure, of rage and anticipation almost like a sexual desire for the flesh im about to corrupt. The crimson tides covering my clothed hands, I can feel her warmth slowly fading away as her mutters become moans of pleasure –or was it pain- as the knife slowly caresses her insides, slowly cutting and gutting her like a fish, no Like a Model.

My name is just a name, for my legend is eternal. For every moment I hear about someone gone missing, about someone mutilating with rage, with desire with lust. My name will echo in the chasm of fear and terror.

Emma was the first, or was it?. She ran away from my fingers and my grasps but I wonder if she is still afraid of my shadow. Of knowing how in every corner I might be waiting for her, of how I am the cold breath on her nights of how I have become the demon of her nightmares. I was clumsy. ¿but aren’t we all when it comes time to make sweet delicate murder?

I walk the walk, I talk the talk. People assume im male but no one would suspect of a woman. Maybe we are legion for we are many.

My lie starts every day, I wake up and witness my routine. Breakfast, I go out for a walk and I feed the pidgeons, sometimes I feed the sparrows too. It gives me an enourmous sense of well being.

Sometimes I dance like a gull and sometimes I play to commit suicide by drowing, or perhaps one day ill be hanged for another crime. Perhaps today ill play being in a mental asylum, could it be that im acting like a conman today or that ill make boots for the people, perhaps I shall walk among palaces and act like royalty or I shall be a doctor and a children’s writer.

Its fascinating and scary to think that I might commited more murders under my name than the ones I actually did. How many admirers had imitated my acts through the late years and all the way through the future years.

People claim that im doing magick, others claim that im just a madman and a killer or an artist.

Truth is, im just having fun

Pale complexion slides through the alleyways as I carry Grapes in my hand. In some other tales I forced myself unto them and in some others I had a carriage.

“Ohh you look so tired.”

I see her eyes and she wants to be a victim, she knows her place and im on top of her. My figure covered in mystery and for a moment or two, as in sex, I expose myself to her, I truly show myself and she accepts me. This is not a rape, this is consensual. I might be a savage but at least I care about the natural order of things.

One gasp as I calm her whispering “Ohh, you look so tired.”

She doesn’t agree, but she don’t refuses me. The cold steel over her neck as I kiss her cheek, my hand holding her shoulder in a tender caress as the blade caresses her neck. The blade penetrates her virginal neck as her blood pours all over. My hand guiding her hand against her own breast as the blade sinks again against her stomach and slowly moving down. I enjoy the moment as I whisper the cruel fate against her ear.

“I love you.”

Oh, she looks so tired as she rest’s against the wall. As I see the glamour escaping her eyes she at last acknowledges that someone loved her.

7 июля 2018 г. 3:49:33 3 Отчет Добавить Подписаться

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