“Just what in the name of God do ya’ want now, man?”
“Well, why don’t ya ‘ave a look around and see? Stupid wench!”
Lillian started to turn, saying, “Why you bloody -” She ceased speaking, the works caught in her throat. Her widening eyes had just enough time to capture the peculiar image of John standing a few feet away from her, the axe held high above his head as if he were about to split kindling for the fire. She caught the glint of the blade as it came down, striking the very top of her head. As a melon would split apart with the first strike, so it was with Lillian. A split second of ghastliness and pain, and then darkness.
John stood over her corpse, the axe still dangling from his right hand. He felt powerful, and relieved. The wench was useless; and he hardly knew anything about her. His disdain for her had bloomed quickly, and she had suddenly become a problem.
This had not been a marriage of love, nay, a marriage of necessity. She had wanted to marry quickly, saying, “I want to get right to it. Move out in the country with ya’. I cook and do anything.”
John had eyed her. “Anything?”
She had leaned over the rough wooden table, her breasts bulging out the top of her blouse. “Anything. But, I will tell ya’ something: I don’t feel like being the next slice o’ meat for the Ripper.”
“So that’s it, huh? Just trying to escape Jack the knife? Or maybe you’re one of the witches they been hangin’ and burnin’” He had eyed her suspiciously, but lucky for her he already had a few mugs worth of ale sloshing around his sagging belly.
“Oh, right, you twit.” Lillian had said. John gave out a hearty laugh, looked around the pub (most were watching, always hungry for a tidbit of news with their toothless smiles and weather-worn faces), waiting for a similar response from his friends. The other patrons merely chuckled and tilted their mugs to their mouths.
He had known her for a while, to be true, but no one really knew anything about her; she was a mystery when it came to her private life. She was plain looking, which was good enough for any man in the Whitechapel area – to just have a wife could be a blessing in disguise.
He studied the corpse a while longer, and then looked down and realized that the pool of blood was coming dangerously close to his boots. “Damned wench! You’ll not bother me anymore!” He snatched up her feet and dragged her behind the cabin. John fetched the blood-stained axe with his intention already in mind – he had never performed such an act before, except perhaps on an animal while hunting, but this…he raised and swung the axe.
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