I, the drowned.

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After a long night of patients displaying all the hallmarks of influenza; I helped a lad of no more than eight who had a load of gravel accidentally dumped upon him, very nearly killing him. His ribs were nearly all broken, and had developed an intracranial bleed which I drilled and drained on the spot. Gravel dust caked me head to toe, giving me a rather swarthy appearance to put it mildly. Mrs. Fox was none the cleaner, and I had a lad escort her home to wash and change.

It must have been the around 5.30 that morning, likely September, and time had lost all meaning to me. When I finally caught up with the man I had taken to be my future husband, he was seated in a darkened room on across the road from the Newcastle Club Hotel. I was telling him through the window where he sat of my evenings events, and he of his plans for our future together, when, as with the occurrence of the week prior, a woman in her mid 40’s approached him. She was more lewd and gutter mouthed as I thought was possible, describing the joys of ‘a knee trembler’ to him; my beau. As with the previous wench, this filth laden beast was quite obviously one given over to prostitution, and I found myself staring blankly at her in a state of momentary shock. It was then my rage side stepped all conscious thought; reason and rationality fled me.

Grabbing and twisting the kerchief around her neck I beat her to the ground with my heavy hawthorn stick, and dragged her into the small yard behind what appeared to be a house of sorts. My rage drew strength from me that I did not know I possessed. As I rained blow after blow on her head and upper body, I felt the thrill of the iron-hard wood vibrate up my arm, turning her bones from hard lengths, into soft and pliable short pieces. Blood may well have spurted, but I was not to notice.

Rage like fire continued filling me, there was no chance she would ply her trade on my beautiful love, now or ever. How it arrived in my hand, I do not know, but I found I was holding the short dirk I keep around my person filling it. Perfectly weighted, and incredibly sharp, I opened her like a ripe melon. All was done in silence. She, unable to vocalise, and I,  too enraged for speech.

As for the horrid form whom had dared cast her dastardly wiles around the gentleman I loved beyond words, attempting to ensnare him, just as did those other fallen women, should they be included within such an austere gender, that I had finished with in my own way.

Taking in the smear on the ground that I created, that was this whore of damnation and revolt, I spat on her. Grabbing a booted foot, I dragged her behind a pile of rubbish. Striking a match, I threw it into the detritus. A merry blaze began, and the smell of burnt pork began to fill the air. Jolly Jack was done for the night.

 

Click the picture, Patti Smith lurks within.

 

 

N.

 

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