"Aye, ye fuckin' whore! Git back 'ere!"
"Help!" A curvaceous woman cries out, trying to pry her wrist from the fetid grasp of the drunken man. Half his teeth had fallen out, victim to poor hygiene and a few too many fights at the pub. "Help me, please!" A crowd surrounds the man and prostitute, but offer no salvation to the poor woman. Instead, they watch, murmuring and laughing at the pair. The sun beat down on him ruthlessly.
"Imma rip yer heart out ye vazey wench! Stop yer strugglin'!" He pulls tirelessly on her arm, trying to hoist her back into his arms. For such a slender lass, she had quite a deal of strength. "Jus giv'in ye stupid cunt!" His existence permeates the air with alcohol and perspiration. His sweat rolls off of him, leaving clean streaks of skin where they drip.
All of a sudden, his grasp slips from the woman's wrist. The crowd roars, cheering. Kominski feels the air rush out of his lungs as he falls to the ground like a fallen tree. He feels pressure on his chest. He can not breathe.
Staring up, his vision hazy and distorted. Men in white are pinning him to the ground. He feels a prick in his arm. He struggles to suck in air, heaving with every breath.
"Git offa me, ye cocksuckers!" he growls breathlessly, near-rabid as he thrashes about, trying to throw the attackers off of himself.
"You are safe now," the man on top of him coos. The men pinning his limbs remain silent, placing handcuffs on his wrists. He feels the strength of pure adrenaline wash away like a flood over him. "Everything will be better in a bit, alright mate?
Kominski feels himself become unable to fight, his strength fully giving in. He falls silent, his mouth becoming numb. His tongue feels like a dried-up slug in his mouth. He feels as though he is floating outside his body, unattached. He wonders if he died.
He feels himself being hauled upright.
"We are just going to bring you to a safe place, yeah?"
With his last remaining feeling, he turns his head to look behind himself. He looks for the prostitute. She is no longer there. She is not hidden amongst the crowd. They are not there either. It is the middle of the night, not daylight. The sun is not in the sky, nor are there any stars.
Tilting his head to look in front of him, he reads the logo on the mens' shirts. Middlesex County Lunatic Asylum.
YOU ARE READING
Whitechapel
Historical FictionJack the Ripper was never caught-but was it one man who could have gotten away with murder? Taken from the perspective of both the killers and the police, the two groups desperately strive to complete their goals. The killers, to avoid being caught...
