Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane, England, 1915
The elderly man slouched in his chair and violently shook his head. His thin, wrinkled lips pursed into a tight crease. “No”. The word spat out of his mouth harshly, but trembled slightly, splintering its significance. That came with his age. Once upon a time, his words would have come out clear and meaningful, but then again, once upon a time people would have listened to them.
“Please, Mr Birchly,” said the warden impatiently, holding out the bowl of what looked like some sort of broth but was thin enough to be water. “Eat something.”
“No!” screeched the man, digging his nails into the arm of the chair like a frightened animal or child. The warden sighed, running the fingers of his free hand through his hair in irritation and counting silently to ten - this daily occurrence got more repetitive by the week.
“Mr Birchly, I shan’t ask you again -”
“I want Marianna!” the old man demanded, his voice wavering as he looked the warden in the eye threateningly, his whole body shaking with rage.
The warden looked at him pitifully, “She’s…she’s dead, Mr Birchly,” he stopped, as the old man’s head turned away, quivering as the memories came flooding back. “Remember?” the warden added gently. Tears welled in the aged mans eyes as he gestured for the younger man to take the bowl away. He had lost his appetite.
Obediently, the warden left, closing the door behind him. Mr Birchly stared out of the window. Nothing. It all meant nothing. His wirey grey hair stuck out at odd angles; it hadn't been combed in days, maybe even weeks. His thin face in a constant scowl, making the wrinkles on his forehead stand out even more. The old man turned his head from the window to his room...well...cell would be more accurate. It was plain, far too plain. The grimy white paint was flaking off of the walls and the whole room stank of stale broth. The smell wafted from the numerus bowls, still full of the slimy liquid, that sat, untouched, in the corner of the room. Attempts to get him to eat, no less.
But Mr Birchly was not going to eat. That was the master plan, see? It was his way out of this hell-hole. Pity the warden saw through it all really.
London, Thursday October 13th 1870
Amos’ hands trembled as he dropped the bloodied knife onto the hard, wooden floor, his mouth widened in horror as he clasped his hands over it to prevent a scream. He circled his victim hesitantly, not wanting to go any closer than he already was. She lay lifeless on the floor, as if sleeping. But Amos knew better. Her pale pink, satin dress was stained with crimson and her skin was as white as a sheet, its colour draining from it already. Whatever life Marianna Birchly had left in her would not be around for long.
The young man tugged at his curly, brown hair in anguish as his eyes darted around the finely decorated drawing room with panic, its normal tranquillity lost in the ominous act of murder. The house’s once familiar appearance now seemed alien; it had become a whirlpool of confusion and nightmares. Amos shut his eyes tightly, and in one outcry of despair, let out the emotions that were trapped inside him. Murderer. The word echoed around the room a little too loud for his liking. He crouched cautiously beside, Marianna's body, praying that some how she could still be alive. He knew it could not be true, but the certainty of it made his heart sink.
Three times he checked for a pulse. Three times in vain. There was no escaping it, Marianna Birchly was most definitely dead. He collapsed on to the body in sorrow, tears spilling down his cheeks uncontrollably. Lifting his head up heavily, he took one last look at his little sister. The shame was hard to bare, one could even argue, impossible. His watery eyes caught on the silver locket that had once dangled from Marianna's slender neck. Slipping it over her head with care, Amos placed it in the small pocket of his waistcoat, alongside his watch. Standing up slowly, he turned on his heel with a heavy heart, and exited what he onced called home.
*****
Amos awoke from an uneasy sleep. Eyeing the room at his chosen inn, he gave a grunt of disgust. It was far from the lavish Westend lifestyle he had been brought up in. Making his way down the stairs, he grasped his head in pain. The headache of the night before's events still hung about. He expected no less. Stumbling out of the door, the putrid smell of Eastend London hit his nostrils hard. Dozens of unwashed bodies, not to mention the smell of the river.... The dingy street was crowded with people, but only one brought attention to Amos.
The boy was young, about ten or eleven, his dirt-stained cheeks indicated his inferiority to Amos. "Read all about it! Read all about it!" he shouted, his unbroken voice ringing shrilly in the crisp air. "Westend Murder!" He waved the newspaper high above his head. The colour drained from Amos' face. Marianna.
"Nasty way t' go..." commented a scruffy looking man to Amos, his newly bought newspaper in hand. "Stabbed. Imagine that? A high-class lady like that! What's the world cummin' to?" Amos said nothing but walked swiftly back inside, vomit gathering in his throat. He had to get out. Get away from London. Away from the memory of her.
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