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.


1. Beyond Hope

I woke to a cold draught escaping into my room. I shivered; winter was finally upon us. As the winter morning light shone through the gap in between my two curtains, I suddenly had a realization: If winter was upon us , then there may be a thick blanket of snow covering the streets of London. Scrambling out of bed, I could feel the presence of this white wonder. Sure enough, when I pulled back the curtains, snow lay all around. I gave a little squeal of delight and ran out my door.

Tip-toeing down the corridor, I could only imagine being the first one to set foot in the snow. I always loved seeing my own footprints implanted in the thick white snow; I've never known the true reason behind this.

I finally stood in front of my brothers' bedroom door. I knew this snow was the only way I could convince him to acknowledge me anymore. I knocked on the oak door, but only heard a grunt from behind it. I entered anyhow and sat upon his bed. 

"Hank! Hank! Wake up!" I whispered into my older brothers' ear "Hank! Come on! It's snowing!" Hank murmured but still lay still.

"Hank please," I begged

"Leave me alone..." Hank complained as yet again he failed to remain conscious. I gave up when I realized he was not going to get up.

"You used to be fun."

"Huh?" Hank yawned.

"I said you used to be fun. You used to play with me, whether it was snowing or not."

"Well, sorry to be the one to tell you this, but it's called growing up, and one day you will too."

"I'll never be like you though." I left the room, as I knew he would not listen any longer.


I hated my brother from then on. When we were small he would play for hours on end, but when he turned fifteen he just erased me from his life completely. It was almost as if he had woken up a different person. Every night  I would not fall asleep without praying that when I woke up I would have Hank back. If anything, that made it worse.

Hank soon took up drinking. I do not quite remember when, but I know it was around the time of Mothers' death. When she died, Father lost his job and we had to move out of our wonderful home to a small slum. Soon after that Hank would not come home until the early hours of the morning, sometimes not at all. We often found him slumped in a nearby gutter, or outside the local bar, sound asleep. We lost count the amount of times he caught hyperthermia.

 Not only did he stay out late into the night, but he started to become violent. If anyone even stepped on a creaky floorboard you would fear for your life; even father shook in Hanks' presence.

When I was younger, I used to fall asleep with my nose scrunched, my eyes squeezed shut and my fingers crossed, hoping upon hope that Hank would wake up that morning as the Hank I knew. It never worked, and only then then did I realize Hank is beyond hope.

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