Re: Vauxhall Gardens
“’Twas at the end and all along of London Bridge, methinks, in its original face, ‘till of course, it became too much a hassle with the crowds. I hear tell the market now, at Rochester Yard, are haunted. Where I live is the East End, called Whitechapel.”
She would see the louse-drenched sheets alive and crawling, the midnight shuddering of clothed bones begging for heat, the shared beds for the sake of space only if she ever softly traipsed there. Restless nights plague him because of it, it shows in the blood-blue crescent moons that his piercing eyes bridge. Unnerving, crystalline boats, which delve into her every detail. He is studying her, still.. He’s also watching everybody around him perish each day, that or run for their lives, and yet he remains in that place and she offers better. Soon the bed shall be all his in that wretched slum. Tonight even, perhaps. Mother being consumptive, coughing dragonblood.
One of the snake-eyes narrows, just the left as if squinting at the celestial face of the bold sun, he’s not grimacing at her request, nor her question. He is scanning her for a fluke, a flaw in the arrangement, is she lying? She doesn't seem the type. She's not a hustler in a rookery. Would it not be perfect for his experiments to be that hidden, bleak smudge in the nicer pristine of the diamond-eyed neighborhood? Then, to away in the night to his own sector to slice them ear-to-ear, to take the kidney…
“I oft work the barbershop most days in Whitechapel, but rare a morning do I. If I were to assist with your land, it would be kind of you on the days that I don’t need to be in Whitechapel to accommodate me. I am quite quiet and keep much to myself. Often, going for walks at night to clear my head for sleep.”