Never Know What to Expect
It could have been worse. For instance it could have been raining which, quite surprisingly, it wasn't. Indeed, it was blisteringly hot out, especially for this time of night. Or morning, whichever one preferred. It was the kind of heat that made everything more tangible, when right now his conscious mind wished for nothing more than to be in a little steel box where he didn't have to experience any kind of reality, especially the one in a dark little alley where everything smelled of death.
If he'd been working at a factory, it wouldn't have been much different. If he'd been hauling around large pieces of stone, he'd still end up back somewhere where he wouldn't have put anyone in danger. Or, if it came to that, where he could have found someone to put in danger. Maybe it would have been worse once triggered, more intense. Maybe he'd have gotten a 'female friend' and accidentally spent one more minute in bed with her than he should have and attacked her. Maybe this was better, in a terribly twisted way. After all, he'd managed to walk through streets in the middle of the day and keep himself together.
There was something about it that suggested that it was like being drunk or out of one's mind on drugs, but that wasn't accurate at all. It wasn't as if he was swimming through some kind of hazy reality – quite the opposite. The whole world couldn't have felt more real, or more like it was in the palm of his hand. And there was one thing he wanted, but at the same time he couldn't have let himself have it. He knew full well he had the power to take the life of anyone he wanted to, he could have torn through them like tissue paper. There was a specific part of him that wanted to, and there was a vile feeling in his stomach that told him that it would be much better if he just let it do its job and be done with it. At the same time, it went up against everything he thought was right, and if he gave in, he'd be ruining everything he'd worked and degraded himself for.
Right now there was a smell in this alley that was driving him absolutely mad, a mixture of blood, burned flesh, and rot. He had his eyes closed, he didn't want to see it, but really, what was the point? His eyes popped open, and he saw absolutely nothing in front of him. Just some bins and a large sack of something, all illuminated by the thin light of a streetlamp a few meters away. If there was anything else, it was much too dark to see. Before he knew it, his feet were moving forward, dodging a rat, and his hands were opening up a bin.
A woman's face stared up at him from an entirely unnatural direction. She was clearly quite small, since she'd been shoved in there entirely. Her thick makeup was smudged and running on her gaunt face, and she was wrapped up in a blanket which did little to hide the fact that she'd been terribly brutalized. The worst part of it, however, was that a very good portion of the back of her head was missing. Part of Izzy was disappointed. Most of him was absolutely horrified. He dropped the lid and stood there for a while, trying to process it. It wasn't exactly the first time he'd seen a dead body, and he didn't feel sick, but this was one of the first times it hadn't been his fault, or that he'd seen anything this mutilated. Or someone he knew, for that matter.
He ran back to the boardinghouse and put on something that didn't make him look quite so tarty. For once, he was going to do something right, and he didn't want to get in trouble for it. From there, he ran down to the police station, and attempted to submit an anonymous report.
A few hours later, paranoia kept him awake as he sat in a small room, waiting for someone. The detective, that was right. He cursed himself for saying he knew anything about it.
---
"I was feeling sick, so I went into the alley to, well, you know…I was goin' home for the night, sir, just had to take a friend back to his place first. …In Frieda Westwood's boardinghouse on Alewife, sir…It's cheap, sir. It's better than the streets, sir. …Yes. I was in the alley, when I saw a finger coming out of one of the dustbins. I looked in and there she was, so I went straightaway to the station, sir. …Yes, I'm feeling fine now, sir. Thank you kindly for asking."
"I didn't really know her personally, sir. Some of the girls in the boardinghouse used to make a joke out of her, like, and I used to see her sometimes when I was coming home. …Polly, sir. …I don't know, maybe twenty, twenty-five. Never thought to ask, sir. …I dunno, but she was usually outside the Prince of Wales if I remember hearin' correctly. Sir. …She didn't have a fancy man, the girls used to say that she did, but she'd killed 'im, sir. …They said she had the pox something terrible, sir. I don't know if she actually did or if it were just a rumor."
"I don't know who'd want to kill her, sir. Far as I knew, none of the girls really hated her, she was just a joke to 'em. …If one of 'em had wanted to kill her, I don't know a single one of 'em who'd do it that…sordidly. It'd looked like it had been done by a monster, sir. None of those girls are monsters, sir. …I know, sir. If you don't mind me saying, I think they're just misguided, sir."