Whitechapel

May 13th, 1889

"You're a fat lard, y'know that James?"
"Aye, you've told me a thousand times," James Maybrick slouches further into the sofa, calling back hoarsely. He no longer fit in the frail dining room chairs, due to his roly-poly physique. "Can we not just have one fine day without a feud, my loving wife?" A deep hatred boiled in his eyes, his fist gripping the knife in his hand dangerously. Flexing his fingers, he breathes deeply, attempting to regulate his anger.
It has been half a year since the last murder. Jack the Ripper had officially disbanded after the fight that one night in November. The lot of those lads were right insane and he was glad to be rid of them---for the most part. The sole downfall was his growing bloodlust. His wife, the reason he gravitated to murder in the first place, was still alive. She was alive and ridiculing his every being with every breath.
Lord, how he wishes she would just stop breathing.
She waltzes into the living room, carrying a steaming plate of food, heaping with meat and gravy and all things good. She places it on his lap with a scowl. "Right, right. A day without a feud would be a grand day indeed, wouldn't it?" she sighs, dreamily as she turns to settle herself down on a frail, wooden chair. "I do hope that day comes soon, dearest," she admires, a reflective look in her complexion.
Raising his eyebrows, the tension leaves his grip. "Do you really think so?" She had never spoke such hopeful words. Not since they were young and in love, decades ago. A small smile slides over his lips, reassured by such loving words.
She hums thoughtfully, returning the smile.
Pleased, he wastes no time in devouring the meal before him. His wife watches, quietly. Her smile only grows once he pushes the plate away from himself, putting it on the cushion beside himself. A long while ago, she would sit beside him, leaning on his shoulder. He would hold her. They would smile.
"That might've been the best meal I've ever had!" he exclaims, regarding her fondly. In fact, the food hit just the right spot. After just a few bites, he had felt himself becoming more relaxed. Fatigue washes over him like an ocean's wave. "What's the secret ingredient of today?" he jokes, yawning hardily.
She smiles coyly, standing. "Oh, a lady should never tell her secrets."
"No, I must know," he insists, playful smile adorning his lips. Then, as though he was stricken over the head, he cries out. Grappling at his head, he groans in pain. He has never had such a sudden migraine before. His bowels grumble angrily, as though the gods have scorned him. Such immense pain, discomfort all so suddenly. He sobs. His head feels as though it is cracking open, ripped apart as savagely as they had pulverized Mary Kelly. Was this his repentance?
Waltzing up to him, she kneels with a blasé smile.
"Arsenic. The secret ingredient to a happy marriage is arsenic."