News broke out, London ignored the first calling, the first murder a young lady, dead in the street, the moon shone on her like a spotlight to a celebrity. Only her. Body pale, eyes wide and pleading. Blood covered her like a blanket, an open cavity in her chest. Where her very life was gone. Her heart. Many questioned, was it the infamous Jack the Ripper? No, never, wrong parts missing. Was it a dog? Never, no marks to prove. No one could close the very first case, and left it alone. Two weeks later, another body, a male. Cold and stale in his bed, like a piece of toast left out all night. White sheets gone red. His life, missing too. Where was his heart? London began to call these horrid events the Heart Murders. Another two weeks, another murder just the same. Four weeks, two murders, two of the same. Then the murders stopped, London was baffled, and a bit relived. It was far from over though, clear down in New Zealand. Heart Murders started, all with a note and initials " H.R" and the missing heart. None of it made any sense, how was this even possible? A murderer jumping places, in the course of two weeks exactly. It didn't seem human, it just couldn't be possible, what was really going on with these murders, who was behind them all? From New Zealand to America, all the way down to Africa, these murders were jumping. But no one could solve them, not anytime soon. So many hearts were taken, no one to claim the famous crime. Hart, resting alone in his room, surround by jars upon jars, only missing one for his beautiful collection, the one he wanted oh so badly, the only one that kept him at bay, forced him to work, and hated every fiber of his being. Didn't even know, at such a young age, that he was the real cause of that night. Nor would he ever tell. The night of February 13, 1880 he got the most beautiful gifts. The only things he wanted more then his own breathing body. Was the heart and soul of his very own mother. For all the punishment she did to his father, and him. He wanted to set his father free. And free he did so.
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Death Before Me
AléatoireDeath has always been feared. Death has always been in history. The stories have all been wrong. Why me though, why had god choosen me?