Final Cut
by Jonathan Carter
Copyright ImagineThat! Studios 2012
Tonight.
Her teeth bit down hard on her bottom lip, stifling what would have been a cry. It escaped her as merely a whimper, but this was the only impulse she could repress. A tingle now danced along her skin, and against the fabric of her chemise rubbed tight, swollen nipples. Anna breathed in the November chill, the night sky yielding an occasional raindrop. That could make things more difficult.
Then again, a cold rain could sober her up from the sickening euphoria she felt. Anna thought she could control it by now. This was the third time her body had plunged into this powerful arousal after hearing the Voice. The sensations accompanying it were no longer new, and she knew this whisper was her prelude, the tiniest of warnings, for the long evening ahead of her.
She thought, by now, she could prepare herself for when it spoke. For whatever reason, its insistence was pronounced; and that insistence only excited her more than the first time she heard it.
Tonight, it spoke again. Yes, yes, yes, tonight!
Now her crotch opened and she felt a warmth seep between her thighs. Anna braced herself against a stone wall, turning her face away from the street as she fought from shuddering. She gripped the rough bricks, swallowing back what would have been a wail of want and delight. Her fingers bent at their top joint, her nails threatening to crack as they pressed deeper into the stone and mortar. Another deep breath, and the fog swirling behind closed lid began to clear. Anna felt her knees push underneath her feet. Her legs were no longer trembling.
Control. And that had been Anna, not the Voice.
Tonight, the Voice implored. It was back to a whisper, but its insistence was still evident.
“Tonight’s date,” Anna gasped, her body still alive with heat and want. Her voice sounded far too loud in her ears. She screwed her eyes shut, and muttered, “Remember, remember the fifth of November. November the fifth.” She shook her head violently. “But it isn’t the fifth. No, no, no. Not the fifth. No. No.” Her eyes snapped back open. “November the eighth. The Year of Industry. 1888.”
Yes, it would be tonight. Her last chance. Otherwise, this nightmare would start over again.
Kill.
Anna released the building that held her upright and turned to see a pair of couples staring at her as if she had just appeared out of a thick fog. Other pedestrians continued along their way, regarding her as just another unfortunate shadow lingering in the corners of London. Considering the simple, worn look of Anna’s garments, this had been the way of things since her arrival.
That had been the plan after all. She couldn’t attract him dressed as a lady to the manor born. That was not his modus operandi. The women had all been lower class. Vulnerable. Desperate.
Kill.
Anna knew that even before hearing the Voice.
The Voice had crippled her on that first night in London. While Anna knew she was on borrowed time, she had remained immobilized in her room, bombarded with dark, horrific imagery while riding orgasm upon orgasm. Her moans had been so loud that the landlord asked her to “take her business elsewhere.” She did as commanded, leaving his puritan revulsion masked with befuddlement after he had found Anna in her room, alone.
The heat her body had generated that night sufficiently kept her warm, but Anna knew she was in no condition to hunt. She did go to the scene, confirming what she had been given glimpses of earlier that evening. Anna looked at this as her adjusting. She needed to adjust to her surroundings, the era, and this unseen companion. Even if she had found it in her to track her intended, Anna would be helpless to do anything other than track him. For now.
Tonight. I can feel it.
Anna walked forward into the night, into the embrace of the city, ignoring the cravings. She would call upon the Voice when she was ready. I am in control, she thought to herself. Oddly enough the quick clicks of her heels against the stone streets provided comfort.
Where is she? Where? Where? Where?
It gave her something to focus on within the cacophony. So very soothing. They emulated a metronome, a soft, rhythmic chronicle of the passing time.
Yes, yes, YES!
The jolt forced her against a building. She shook her head, blinking her eyes quickly.
“You know what you have to do, Anna, and you know what it will do to you,” she hissed. “Sit your bloody ass down.”
A nervous titter escaped her at the irony nestled within that self-chastisement.
The vacant bench silently invited her for a moment’s rest. Anna knew that moment’s rest would not come, not when she called out to the Voice. She breathed in the chill and stench of the night, her eyes straying to a flickering dancer trapped in a lamp above her head. Protected from the rain, the sapphire corona quivered underneath a crown of amber and white, its colors swirling to form a smooth, featureless beacon that pushed aside the darkness.
“Show me,” she finally whispered.
The night, London, and the gaslight dancer vanished. Before her eyes flashed image after image, each of them glimpses of gore, macabre, and death, their succession never slowing. These captured moments filled her vision, sending her deep into a horrifying vertigo. If Anna had made any sound at all, she would not have heard it as in her ears buzzed static that popped with each new image.
Blind. Deaf. Disoriented. And yet, her skin flared once more. She felt her nipples sting, her core aching. She fought to keep her legs together, but it was so hard. No longer a tingle, her clit swelled and throbbed. Her body yearned. She wanted. She desired. She hungered.
A final flash, and then she felt air once more in her lungs. The vertigo was gone. The lamp’s solitary flame danced happily within its glass shelter.
Anna felt a slight dampness against her cheek. Her hand reached up to wipe away what she thought was rain. From its warmth, she knew that it was a solitary tear that had trailed down her face during the download.
“13 Miller's Court, Spitalfields.” Anna leapt from the bench and, as much as the fashion allowed her, broke into a run. “Just off Dorset Street.”
The streets and buildings adorned themselves with illuminated names and arrows, transforming the Victorian labyrinth into a wireframe maze with a convenient key underfoot. At the bottom-left of her perspective, a map of London appeared, featuring a countdown in meters between her current location and the destination she had just uttered, along with the current date and time.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary…
Anna bit the inside of her cheek. Any minute now.
Even with her class standing, the dress of the age was skirts, corsets, lacings, and frills. All of them were hindrances. The fashion and how its hindrances slowed her progress through the streets fueled her anger.
She would not fail tonight. She would not.
“Had I?” she gasped, stopping only ten meters from her destination. Might as well been a thousand. These damned shoes were killing her feet. “Have I done all this before?”
Murder.
It was originally reported that a solitary scream had been heard, but she knew better. People loved to embellish on facts, particularly if it meant they held people’s attentions.
Some things never change.
Murder most foul, the Voice taunted. Foul, unclean beast!
Thin, green lines blinked rapidly around the meager building in front of her, and then disappeared. After a few seconds, the location outlined itself once more, blinked, and then returned to normal. It did this several times as Anna closed the distance. She could see meters tick down…
Four meters.
Three meters.
Two.
One.
A fire raged in the hearth of this woman’s h
ome. If anyone were to look in the direction of Miller’s Court, this would have not seemed in the lease bit odd as it was November. Fall was yielding to winter, and tonight was not one of those days that reminded the city of warmer seasons. No, a fire would be lovely at this time. Perfect for chasing away the chill.
Anna noted the time before her ethereal display faded into the dark.
Time to die, whore. You filthy, filthy whore. But not like the others. No, no, no. You are to be special, my Contrary Mary.
Swallowing hard, Anna crept closer to the house. Her hand reached for the door handle.
Stop! A stab of pleasure wrenched her body taut as chains holding a barge steady in the shipyards. You know you can’t do that.
Her open hand clenched into a tight fist. Perhaps she could—
Naughty, naughty Anna. Her mouth was dry, but she could feel sweat forming on her back. You must wait.
Anna could feel the scream in her throat, a cry for help that would end this once and for all; but invisible fingers clamped around her neck and squeezed.
Watch me, Anna.
Her eyes widened. She now felt those invisible fingers turn her head slowly, away from the door.
Watch me.
The house had two small windows, presumably to allow a cross breeze and keep the one-room flat from becoming a one-room oven during the summer months. Anna licked her lips and surrendered to the need to draw closer. Perhaps this was the fate of a moth: Indulging on an insatiable desire, no matter the cost.
What a curious thought to have, she thought as she looked through the second window. Its glass was hardly pristine, but clean enough for her to see inside.
He had already cut her throat; and from the look of the wound, it had been cut deep. His blade was currently making quick work of her lace, muslin, and linens, exposing creamy white flesh encased within them. Mary was not a slight woman, but neither was she an unattractive woman for the time. With all the curves of Botticelli’s Venus, Mary Jane Kelly’s body seemed to shimmer and move, but this vitality was merely an illusion, the shadows’ movement on account of the fire in the hearth and the skin’s gleam from the blood that had seeped through her underclothes.
You were beautiful, my Contrary Mary, the Voice whispered in Anna’s head, but this gift from God you have tainted by making yourself a whore.
Anna’s eyes followed the man to an open parcel where his steady, calm hands swapped the smaller blade for a larger one. Whether these tools were that of a butcher, a surgeon, or a retired soldier, Anna could not tell. She watched as his hand caressed the still, rounded body, his hand encasing one of Mary’s full breasts.
Your wantonness is a disease, a lesion that must be removed, the Voice whispered as his blade began cutting. And so I shall. Then will you be beautiful again. Like her.
The more she watched, the deeper the blade cut, the more her body ached. She needed to feel someone cupping her own breasts, nibbling her ears, driving a cock hard into her wanting cunt. She needed that now so much.
You will be like her, the Voice promised as the blade continued through the dead woman’s flesh. You will be so beautiful once I remove this cancer from you…
A rustling of fabric now joined the Voice’s promises echoing in her head. Anna’s eyes never tore away from the unfolding abomination happening in 13 Miller's Court, Spitalfields, not even when she felt the cool air through her underclothes. She yanked at the buttons just above her wanting crotch, the tearing and popping only adding to the insanity raging between her mind and body. Her fingers plunged deep inside her, and the relief—while fleeting—wrapped her body in a delicious bliss. Anna wanted so much to moan, cry out, give a voice to this sweet ecstasy she had denied herself, but all that came was a long, tense sigh, her eyes rolling back into her head, only taking her away from the firelight performance for a moment. She easily worked her fingers in and out of her as he sliced into the second breast. What she watched should have repulsed her, should have made her wretch in disgust. Instead her fingers were drenched in juices flowing from an erotic spring fueled by madness. It didn’t take long for her palm to become covered, hot and slick, with excitement no lover had ever given her. Anna’s thumb pushed against her clit that now throbbed in time with his slicing. She wanted him, wanted to be in there with him as he make Mary beautiful like the lights of London through a lifting fog.
I have so much work to do, the Voice said. Stay with me, Anna.
“Yes,” Anna dared to whisper aloud.
He had just finished removing Mary’s other breast when he stopped. Had he heard her? Anna rubbed her clit faster now, hoping that he had. Please, Anna thought, her fingers quickly stabbing her crotch while her mound kept time with the heartbeat thrumming in her head. Please.
STOP LOOKING AT ME, YOU WHORE, the Voice screamed.
The large knife struck Mary’s face again, and again, and again. It was on the third blow when Anna came, her body bucking and jerking as she struggled to watch him tear into Mary Kelly’s skull.
Stay with me, Anna. I have so much to do.
She did. Anna never looked away, her body violently achieving orgasm time and time again as the Grand Guignol continued to play.
###
Whatever struck her face struck her hard. Anna realized as her own dizziness settled that the wetness pelting her was numerous and plentiful. She screwed her eyes tighter, and then slowly opened them.
It was still dark. She was still outside Mary Kelly’s flat. It was raining harder now. How many times has she come?
Her heart seized up in her chest. Anna had fallen asleep.
“No,” she whimpered.
She looked into the flat to find only a gore that was once Mary Jane Kelly sprawled across the bed. Fighting back tears and another scream in her throat, this scream a cry of frustration and desperation, Anna ran. The briefest of flashes came to her concerning what she had just witnessed. Where was the repulsion? The remorse? Mary Kelly had been alive. She had been a life. She had been slaughtered before her very own eyes, dissected as if part of some science class experiment. Any human being would have retched at what she had seen.
Anna knew why. At least, she knew now. She just didn’t care. She would not go through this again.
“Where are you?”
I am here, Anna. You just have to catch up with me.
The chronometer appeared at the bottom of her vision. Current time. Elapsed time since her losing consciousness. Then came flashes of readouts, and against the ground she saw outlined in green a trail of footprints leaving Mary Kelly’s home, footprints carrying faint traces of blood not yet washed away by the rain.
“Not long,” Anna muttered, beginning her pursuit. “Not far.”
The flashes coming to her now were her own. No images. Thoughts. Her thoughts. Her fears. It had to me be now. It had to be tonight. If not tonight, when? When would she—
Through the mist, the rain, and the darkness, his frame blinked in front of her with that same emerald outline Mary Kelly’s home briefly possessed. The solitary figure walked at a brisk pace. Was it merely to get out of the rain, or wanting distance between him and Spitalfields, as much as he could gain before the beautiful Contrary Mary was discovered?
Is that me ahead of you? The Voice. The goddamned Voice. She hated what it did to her, how it excited her. Speak now, or forever hold your peace…until next time.
“Jack!”
The man stopped. He didn’t start. He didn’t run. He simply stopped.
Anna watched numbers tick down as she approached him. She was close enough to see the rain strike his hat and cloak.
He still hadn’t turned around.
“Jack?” Why did her voice waiver? The cold now seeping through her skin? The fear of this monster in front of her? Or from the possibility that the end—whatever that end may be—was near. “Please?”
The leather wrapped around her mouth and Anna felt herself scrambling backwards. Her back hit a brick wall, sending her breath from t
he corners of his hand.
YES! YES! YES! Anna moaned into his hand as the Voice enveloped her body with a rush of elation and lust. I AM HERE, ANNA! IT IS NOW YOUR TURN!
His hand pulled away from her face and pressed against her chest.
“Jack,” Anna grunted. “Wait!”
The feel of the soft, supple leather against her cold, rain-chilled skin did little to calm her heightened arousal. His other hand rumaged inside the mysterious satchel. Let me make you beautiful, Anna. Like her.
With a quick hiss, Anna took in a deep breath and reached for that elusive control. “I could have called out, Jack. A scream. One scream, but I didn’t.”
The tinkling of blades stopped.
“I didn’t, Jack. Please. Just listen to me.”
Slowly, the man stood. The hand that pinned her to the wall fell away.
Anna had never seen eyes so dark, so cold. They bore into her, considering her as if she were on an examination table. The rain was lighter in this alleyway, but the slight spittle that fell around them hardly softened his gaze.
She fought for calm. “I understand. I watched you tonight with Mary, and I understand.” There was no Voice, but her skin still tingled with desire. It no longer drove her now. “I know you, and I understand. Please. Let me show you how beautiful I find you, Jack.”
His head tipped to one side, and that was when Anna softly pressed her lips to his. Only the rain sounded in her ears. She allowed Jack to pull her closer, and his tongue plunged into her mouth. He tasted sweet, like dry wine. Still, no words. Only the rain.
When they parted, it was now his breath that was unsteady.
Anna was close.
“Let me show you,” she begged of him.
Anna sank down to her knees and ran her palms against the growing bulge in Jack’s trousers. She continued to run her hand slowly against his shaft as her other hand unfastened his fly. She reached through folds of fabric before finally feeling skin. Sweet, soft, smooth skin. Her hands continued to stroke his cock, bringing her lips close enough to brush against the pale, engorged flesh. The only thoughts and desires running through her mind and body were her own, even when she devoured him. The Voice remained silent, and still she wanted more. Anna was certain he found her mouth warm, her tongue soft, particularly as it cradled his cock. The strained moan that escaped from him she found particularly delightful, and her cunt flowered when he twitched in her mouth. She could feel herself drifting, feeding the lust and want she had craved since first hearing the Voice. Her arm reached up and curled around his thigh, and Jack tensed within her primal embrace. Was he afraid? Why? She understood him. She desired him, the beautiful man, in earnest. Anna took as much as she could of him into her mouth. She wanted Jack to reveal himself. She wanted him to trust. She wanted to be the beauty Jack was searching for in the women of London.
Final Cut Page 1
