The Blood on My Hands

Its November 1888, and things aren't looking good for Matilda Dawes. Her fathers' lost his job, her brothers' drinking problem is worsening and a murderous killer is on a rampage, attacking women in and around Whitechapel. When an act of self defence causes Mattie's world to turn upside down, she must live out another life whilst constantly being reminded of her ghoulish past.


3. How Wrong They had Been.

I awoke hours later, head pounding. I had clearly cried myself to sleep. The newly formed memories of the past afternoon suddenly came to me, as so did the tears. These, though, I did not let fall down my pale cheeks. Instead I brushed them away, almost as if trying to convince myself this would make me forget. Whilst wiping away my tears, I remembered the cut. It was still fresh and had not yet started to heal. Once realising blood had been left on my fingertips, I limped towards the old cracked mirror which stood at the far end of the attic. I inspected the cut and was startled to find it was a lot deeper than I had anticipated. Hank's snores could be heard from downstairs; I  decided to tip toe downstairs past the lumbering giant to the barrel of water which stood outside. The ice cold water shocked me so much I gasped and then winced once the water went into the cut.

"Who-whos there ?" Hank mumbled. He then seemed to realise the seriousness of the situation and was on his feet in an instant, though soon regretted it. The great lump howled in pain,as if he was a great beast who had been struck. He cradled his hungover head as I stood frozen to the spot. However his infuriating headache only seemed to make him more determined to kill whomever disturbed his slumber where he could have slept until the Old Bird opened where he would have drowned his woes. I quickly figured the only thing left to do was run, so I hitched up my ragged and torn skirts and ran as faSt as I could. Luckily I was used to running whilst wounded so found only minimal inconvenience with my ankle.

When I finally stopped running, I found myself in front of my fathers' old sweet shop, Mr Dawes' Sweets. Hank and I used to spend endless summers behind the counter of that shop. I used to get tipped for being 'sweet' and Hank for being 'a true gentleman'. Hoping to be able to relive these memories, I turned to the filthy old shop windows and was greeted by my reflection. My dirt ridden, scarred face. My old, torn crimson dress with the old white underskirt. My stained, unravelling shawl. My tangled, wild, chocolate brown hair trailing past my shoulders and half way down my back. I sighed. How wrong had those people been, about both of us.

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