I have read and edited this so many times myself, I'm sick of it. PLEASE HELP!
I sat in the corner and watched quietly. The man in the red cloak stood there solemnly, doing nothing. In another setting, I would have thought he was bored. Here, however, in this dark cavernous room, I knew that he wasn’t bored. What he was was concentrating. The struggling shell of a man on the floor in front of him writhed and twisted, screaming. Its arms flailed and it was very clear that at his left was broken in at least 3 different places. His body continued to arch grotesquely on the ground. To someone with a weaker stomach, this might have been the breaking point where they ran from the room screaming that God smite them for the evil things they saw. I had seen that happen before, and hadn’t been able to restrain the laugh that escaped my lips. The man in the red cloak had punished me severely for that one.
I turned my attention back to the victim, and was surprised to see that the man in the red cloak had a new trick up his sleeve. Now not only was the man screaming with broken bones, but blood slowly leaked from under his finger nails and eyes. It dripped out, looking almost sophisticated in the way that it sped up for no man. It merely oozed slowly, in an almost stately manner.
This was my new technique for stomaching the tortures I have been forced to witness. Don’t focus on the big picture; look at it in a more abstract way. Don’t think about the bones protruding from the skin; think about how the came to that exact angle and think about how much force it would have taken. Don’t see the blood. See the way it came slowly. It was my “new vision” as I would have explained it to the man in the red cloak, had he asked. Almost the way that new painter Picasso must see the world. But I knew the man in the red cloak would never ask. That evil, sadistic man cared nothing for me, or for the rest of the human race. He cared only to listen to our bones crack, to see them shove through our skin; to pull out our innards and examine them as a sane man might the morning newspaper. I still don’t totally understand why it is I come to this evil ritual every few days a fortnight. It is as if I am summoned by a power far beyond my comprehension. The man in the red cloak, I suppose. Perhaps I come because I fear that one night I will be the one awakened and dragged down to be sacrificed to his sadistic pleasure. This night’s victim had it easy. The younger boys were worse.
The man in the red cloak is a very real figure of myth for all but me and his victims. To Scotland Yard, he is known simply as Rich Man. It is rather funny, the way every time there is so much as a single day’s break; the authorities automatically assume the end has come to the Rich Man. Every time there is another attack, the media treats it as if this is the first attack, not another chapter in this man’s bloody slaughtering. Humanity’s absurd faith in hope is unwarranted and in my opinion, a move of the desperate, though there are exceptions to every rule. But I am getting off topic. To get back to the baffling of the majority of London. Every body is deposited at the Academy of Science, often accompanied by some sort of cryptic note. No one knows why there, not even me. I do, however, have a fairly clear idea of who the man in the red cloak is, or was before the hateful twisted creature he is now consumed him.
I remember the night he told me of his past. I feel it as if I am just experiencing the horror and disgust now. That night had held in store a young boy. He had been a sad sight, reminding me so much of myself. After I had cleaned up the blood and put the body temporarily in the closet, the man in the red cloak had bayed I come and sit by him on the wooden footstool. He wore his hood up, casting his face into the shadow I had grown accustomed to seeing him in. He sat in a high backed chair, golden with dusty jewels inlaid into it. I presumed that he had dragged it into this room—a sort of ballroom—from the dining room. Beside it, on a dust and web-encrusted pillow was a skeleton of an animal. The bones were arranged in such a way that had there been skin on the creature it would appear as if it had been sitting proudly beside its master at the moment of its death, and hadn’t been touched since. The man in the red cloak stroked the skeleton’s skull, as if he was comforting a whining live animal. He said to me,
“I was not always this way. As a child, I was thought to be the next genius. I was a protégée in mathematics, anatomy, literature, and arithmetic. I even knew a decent amount of psychology. I understood the most complex terms of the day by the age of 10. I could have held an intelligent conversation on any subject on any day. I was decently kind to others, not a shred of a thought to divine pleasure from pain in my head. I was thought to be the most intelligent child of my time. Then, my father went away one day. He did not return. I was plunged into a deep agony, desperate for any distraction. My studies worked for a time. Each became redundant in turn. The only thing that I found distracting as a sort of haven was brining pain to others. Watching them endure the pain that I felt, it brought me brief spells of relief. At first, I used only small pests I found in the family barn. Gradually, I used bigger animals. Cats, birds I found in the field, and on a special occasion, a mountain cat, but never dogs. I loved Rufus too much to ever dream of hurting dogs.” At this point, the man looked fondly over at the skeleton. He seemed lost in thought for a second, then turned back to me and continued,
“I realized that there was one ultimate resource and joy that I had yet to use: humanity. People…an unused pleasure. If we truly are all part of one body in Christ, then we should suffer as a whole. I tried luring beggars to my home when I was alone in my pain, and that was the most pleasure I had experienced in a long time. Watching the already partially visible ribs jut out from the chest, covered in shimmering innards, was one of the most enjoyable parts of the process.
“Shortly after my discovery, my sister Victoria and I got into a small tiff about who was to feed Rufus. In my anger I killed her. I had never liked her much. We were too different to hold any sort of civilized conversation. In my own special way of getting my revenge, I fed her to Rufus. He was only too willing to eat one of his former masters. For a few days, I feared that the police would discover me as the culprit, but my fears came to no avail. I published a little-known paper on the nature of human suffering, but they practically ignored it when the war ended a mere week later. In a fit of rage at the general audience’s ignorance, I killed my mother. Curious in my own way, I ate her instead of feeding her to Rufus, who begged for a share of my meal. I regret her death, surprisingly. Yes, my little apprentice, you didn’t know I had any remorse for my actions, did you?” The man in the red cloak hacked up a harsh chuckle, and I returned to my settings. I had been lost in the horror that this man had eaten his own mother. Who could do such a thing, and not be consumed with grief enough to die himself? The man concluded,
“I disappeared, fearing that this time the police actually would link the deaths of my family to me. Perhaps both fortunately and unfortunately, they paid much more attention that time. I returned to this place a year later, knowing people would never return here, out of fear that this place was perhaps cursed by some malevolent spirit. Entering a house where 3 of the 4 previous owners died can breed reluctance in anyone. Indeed, this is the house I grew up in. Nostalgia, remorse, who knew that I was capable of such humane emotions?” The man in the red cloak laughed again, and then humorously bid me good-bye. I had run with nigh supernatural speed that night. Far from comforting me, this man’s history had scared me even more of him. He was not mad, but nor was he lucid. What is this state he lives in? Nay, he does not live. He merely exists. He has not lived since the day his father disappeared.
I was pulled from my dark thoughts of the past when he summoned me down to clean up the blood of this full-moon night. I turned back from the once-grand balcony and hurried down the spindly spiral staircase. As I ran round and round for three levels, it once again amazed me at how many cobwebs and how much dust had accumulated over the course of the 13 years since this house had been lived in by anyone other than the man in the red cloak.
I quickly slowed down when I reached the man in the red cloak’s level. He hated any sign of anything other than mediocre to supreme sophistication. That night’s victim still lay gasping on the ground, his chest rising and falling sharply. The man in the red cloak shouted at me in his strong yet raspy voice,
“Boy! Clean this up, but leave the carcass for me. It is the 14th anniversary of my mother’s…unfortunate death” I understood his meaning, and quickly mopped up the blood with the rag that was always in the corner when I came. On the anniversary of his mother’s death, he would eat that night’s victim, like his mother. I don’t understand why he does this when he has told me that he hates human flesh. Too stringy for him. Perhaps this is his perverse way of doing penance for his crimes. When I was cleaning the blood next to the victim, his mangled hand grabbed me. Only 2 of the fingers and his thumb were able to grasp at me, since the others were bent to extreme angles that the human body was not meant to be in. He stared up at me with wide desperate eyes, and asked me,
“My name is Christopher Smith. Please, tell my family what happened. Kill the man who did this to me. Rid the world of him. For me.” I ignored him with difficulty. As soon as the mess of blood was gone, I fled as fast as I could without actually running. It wasn’t fast enough, for I heard the ripping of flesh and the man in the red cloak’s moaning that was almost completely drowned out by live man’s screams as he was consumed.
Through the streets I walked, wanting to relish the peace before I returned to my home. I tried desperately to keep the man’s face out of my mind, and I still think that I can hear his screams now. A carriage rushed past me after a few blocks, almost running me over. As it raced past, I almost could swear that the horses had possessed not black friendly eyes, but cold harsh red ones, like the very flames of Hell were encased inside of the animal’s flimsy skin. I thought about what would await me when I returned home. My father would wonder where I was. The man in the red cloak had kept me almost half an hour late. Mother would be passed out in a drunken stupor if I was lucky. If I was unlucky, however, she would be shouting nonsense and kicking at anything in range. My little sisters would be cowering behind my father as he futilely tried to protect them from my mother’s wrath. If this was the case, she would hurt me as well as them, until she passed out on her own or I miraculously managed to knock her out myself. I would find out which was to be the case when I reached our corner.
Luck was on my side. Mother was dead to the world, as were my little sisters. Father sat by the fire, reading a book. He smiled at me and motioned that I come to him. I smiled back and quietly walked over. His kind smile was refreshing after witnessing so much cruelty. Again. He whispered in my ear,
“Did your mysterious job pay anything tonight?” I shook my head and whispered back,
“They said that I would get paid tomorrow. They had forgotten to take the money out of the account.” Father nodded and whispered,
“Go to bed. We have to get up early tomorrow. And make sure they don’t forget again, otherwise your mother will be angry.” I looked at him questioningly and said,
“Why do we have to get up?”
“School. Your long holiday is over.” I nodded suddenly tired and trudged wearily up the stairs. I collapsed onto the bed, hoping that Mary and Alison would remain asleep. Luck was still with me, and they didn’t stir a bit as I tossed and turned that night, the man in the red cloak weaving in and out of my dreams, always shouting and beating me for not demonstrating the highest level of sophistication in his presence while my father lay dead on the floor near him.
I woke with a gasp, and instantly wished I hadn’t. The winter’s chill had infiltrated the ratty but warm quilt, and was wrapping its cool tendrils around my chest, my breath turning to a semi-transparent mist as soon as it cleared my nose. I reluctantly pushed back the covers, and heard Mary squealing downstairs. Little baby Alison was making a fuss, and Mother had thankfully slept through it all. I could tell because her shrill screeching voice wasn’t resonating throughout the shack we lived in, and I could hear the sounds of busy London outside my window. I dressed, and crept down the stairs, hoping to sneak off to school without being guilted into feeding Alison or getting Mary dressed. She had a strong aversion to wearing her knickers and trousers, and a shirt wasn’t absolutely mandatory in her mind either. My father was keeping the oatmeal from burning, Mary was screaming something about a missing sock, and Alison was wearing her drool to the point where it looked like she had just got done bathing in her clothes. I successfully escaped, and welcomed the sight of London’s busy ways as men hurried off to their jobs and children chased each other through the streets on their way to school. Yet again I pondered how strange it was that the roles in my family had somehow been swapped. Mother was the one in a drunken rage, Father was the one keeping the family together, and I was quickly becoming the sole breadwinner if Father’s job kept spiraling downward. I kicked at a newspaper blowing across the street, and caught a glimpse of the front page. It screamed, “RICH MAN MURDERS CONTINUE: SCOTLAND YARD BAFFLED” I snatched it out of the blustery wind, and read the article as I walked through the streets. It read:
The Rich Man murders continue to terrorize our fair city. This morning, there was a development in the brutality of the crime: Instead of a full body, it was a skeleton that was dumped. The bones had tooth marks on them. The note read, “For those who seek me, know that your attempts at my capture are futile. You will never catch me, not if I were to walk in and declare myself the infamous Rich Man. Sincerely yours, The Rich Man.” If you have any clues as to the man behind this call 00-679. There is a £6000 reward for any relevant information to this case…
I didn’t need to read the rest of the article, knowing that there would be nothing new. Perhaps a history of the missing victim. I didn’t need to read that. I didn’t want to know who had been sacrificed; who had been eaten. I wanted him to remain a face to me, only a face. There had been a few victims I had recognized, and they were always the worst. I knew their children. I would bear firsthand to their grief, and there was nothing I could do. At least when I didn’t know them, I could pretend that the person had been plucked out of thin air by the man in the red cloak, that they didn’t have a life before the man in the red cloak had taken it from them.
I arrived at the schoolhouse just in time to slip between the closing gate doors. Master Thomas looked down at me disapprovingly for my tardiness. I had walked slowly while I read, and I couldn’t very well read during school. I would surely get the switch if I was ever that stupid. Today, we started with arithmetic. Multiplication was a plague from God. Then spelling and literature followed mathematics, lunch and break, and then science. School was and always had been a breeze. Most of the knowledge I had previously picked up from the man in the red cloak. He often schooled me in random subjects, although I could tell that he clearly favored the study of the cosmos and other sciences. Every Sunday, he would teach me what he knew in the academic sense. This was the agreement. I would assist him in cleaning up and writing his notes, anything but the torture, and he in turn would school me on Sundays and pay me £5 every week, even if I had done nothing. It is disgusting the way I have to do his work for him, but it’s necessary for my family to get by. Father doesn’t know what I do. All he knows is that I bring home the money, and I work the job for approximately 1 to 2 hours. He probably thinks that I light lamps around London. I am sure that if I told him the truth, he would die right then and there. That is something that I, unlike the man in the red cloak, don’t want to happen.
That day, I went home and found the place empty. Normally, Father, Mary and Alison would be home, the two eldest preparing the night’s meal and the youngest would be playing with odds and ends in front of the fire. Mother would, of course, be at the pub. Instead, I found the place empty as the wind whistled through the chinks in the wall. I ran around and called their names, but the only answer was the family dog looking up at me forlornly then going back to his nap. I sat down in my chair at the table, deciding they must have gone to market today. That was when I noticed the note. I seized with trembling hands. It read:
To any remaining occupants,
I have taken your dear mother, father, and the two young beauties. I shall enjoy the young ones immensely. I find their high shrieks quite entertaining. You shall see them all again, of course. It is physically impossible to wipe matter entirely from this universe. They shall next be seen on the steps of the Royal Academy of Science.
Regrettably and Cordially yours,
The Rich Man
This was it. My very worst fears had become reality. The man in the red cloak had them. I was afraid. For them, for me. For any involved but him. The fear seemed to wrack and control my every move. There was no way I was going to return to that extension of Hell. Not now, not ever. It was simply too terrifying. Besides, what had my family ever done for me? They do not understand the life I lead they think it to be a simple existence I live. Not so. I do work I don’t understand, and I slave for a man I cannot hope to comprehend. I owe them nothing, and there is nothing that binds me to them aside from the inescapable and flimsy string of blood.
And yet… because of that flimsy string I feel I must help them. It is not their fault they do not about my life. I haven’t told them about my life, so how could they? They are my family, and by abandoning them I would be no better than the fiend hiding behind his red cloak. I think of little Alison going through what I have witnessed, and shudder. But then the fear once again rises to the forefront of my mind.
It is nothing short of suicidal to even dream that I have a chance against this demon on Earth. He would remove me from existence before I could even draw a pistol or knife. How could I possibly have any hope against him? Family bonds are strong, but they aren’t nearly strong enough to overcome the primal instinct of survival. But of course I shall remain here tonight, and stop myself from imagining their final screams of life!
A sudden image of my father gasping in great rasps exploded in my mind. He was covered in blood that was already crusting over and the image—even imagined—made my blood curdle and fists shake. I knew then I had no choice.
That night, everything went as normal. I presented myself at 7 o’clock, as was expected of me. However, this time I had a serrated bread knife pressed to my forearm and hidden in my sleeve. The man in the red cloak was waiting for me. He leered at me, and I pulled the knife out of my sleeve. I think a look of surprise might have registered on his face as I plunged it as deep into him as I could. He collapsed, and his already deep red clothing became an even deeper color. A morbid smile crossed my face, and I twisted the deeply embedded knife. I felt the resistance of bones, but it made no difference to my blood-thirsty and deranged self. This man was only getting a taste, the most minute moment, of the pain he had caused me and his other victims. It was then I realized that he had one more victim still living. Me.
He had stolen from me my careless childhood. He had brought home to me more pain and suffering than any decent human being ever should. Each of the dead ones only had to go through the pain once. I had endured it more than I could be bothered to count. Such pain as that, it is not to be trifled with.
I was pulled out of my thoughts by the rasping voice of the man in the red cloak. I bent closer to his bloody mouth as he choked out,
“Thank... you…” I nodded solemnly to him. His head cracked back to the cobble stones, and blood dripped down the side of his face. Tentatively, I reached forward with my fingers to touch his face. It was warm and slick with the blood, but there was already a chill settling over it. My fingers felt for the string of his mask. I gently tugged at the loose bow holding it in place. The satin fabric came off in my fingers as I gently peeled it away from the murderer’s face. I gazed down at his face, and wept.
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