Historical Fiction
Title: 66-66-10
Word Count: 682
Author's Note: I've never written historical fiction before, so this is probably quite awful. Mary Jane Kelly was the fifth of the Whitechapel Murders (attributed to Jack the Ripper) - she was a 25 year old prostitute, killed November 9, 1888. I tried my best to blend truth into this little piece - her nicknames, the mention of Dean Street, the red handkerchief, her ability to speak Welsh, the name of her landlord's assistant (she was six weeks behind in rent at the time of her death), and the location of her murder. 66-66-10 is the location of her grave at St. Patrick's Roman Catholic Cemetery (no. 66 in row 66, plot 10).
"Mary Jane!"
I know the voice before I turn, and even if I hadn't, the clacking of Sarah's ridiculous heels on the stones would have announced her arrival. Her face is flushed as she totters toward her, those extra few pounds she's put on since she pushed out her last brat making her wobble dangerously.
"Watch you split your skull on the street," I say to her as she finally joins me. "You'll be just like Old Mildred over on Dean."
"Old Mildred got her brains spilt because she can't remember payday," Sarah sniffs, sticking her beaky nose in the air before she settles against the wall beside me. "Busy tonight?" I hum and shake my head, listening to her swish spit in her mouth before hacking it onto the pavement. "Not much hope for the rest of us, then," she mutters in her thick, hoarse voice, tucking her mane of frizzy curls behind her ears, "if not even little Fair Emma gets a bite."
"Lord's sake, don't call me that," I mutter, feeling my face flush, and tug at my apron, flicking specs of dirt off the white linen. She only makes matters worse by reaching over and patting the swell of my breasts, leaving sweaty and dirty fingerprints on my skin, giggling like a naughty schoolgirl in the process. "Oh... hells, Sarah!" I curse, and lick my fingers before I scrub at my skin. "Were you rolling around in a bloody coal pit?" I demand. "Not like I can go wash up before..."
I see it in my peripheral vision - a red handkerchief, carefully stitched at the edges, being offered by the tall, dark-haired man watching me, and my face flushes a shade or two darker as my words die in my throat. Mutely, I accept the piece of fabric and dab the last bits of Sarah's disgusting touch off my skin. She, however, wastes no time in leaning over, displaying the sallow curve of her tits and the paunch of her belly in her dingy grey dress.
"Hullo," she says, grinning. "Something you like?"
He's staring at me from beneath the brim of his hat - I can barely see the glimmer of his eyes, the smooth curves of his face. When he takes a step toward me I lean into the wall, and flinch when he grabs a lock of my hair, pulling it into the light as if for inspection.
"You're Ginger?" he says, though it's not a question. It's no surprise that he knows the name - most men in Spitalfields do.
"Oh she's a right fine ginger!" Sarah exclaims. "Natural, too!" The tired joke strikes her as exceptionally funny this particular time, and she guffaws like an ass in heat.
"You're beautiful," he tells me. He's still holding my hair, twisting it around a gloved finger. "More beautiful than they say. More beautiful than any woman I've seen." The intensity in his words makes me feel like I'm going to be sick. I want him to go away, but it's clear he's here for a reason. Nobody wanders onto Dorset Street without good reason.
"D... Diolch i chi," I stutter, and his expression finally changes, to one of mute confusion. "Thank you," I clarify.
"Ain't he the sweet talker?" Sarah jams a meaty elbow into my ribs, a bit too hard, my cue to get moving. It's not because she wants to see me do business. She just knows that if I'm occupied, there's more pickings for her, and she needs all the help she can get at this point. "Show the feller a good time, why don't ya? Less you want to be explaining to Tommy why you don't have his shillings?"
I push myself away from the wall, my stomach sinking, and he extends his elbow to me as if I'm simply his fair lass, out for a walk. I offer him the handkerchief, not wanting to stuff the blood red material into my pocket, but he shakes his head with a faint smile.
"A gift," he says, and guides me down the street.
Word Count: 682
Author's Note: I've never written historical fiction before, so this is probably quite awful. Mary Jane Kelly was the fifth of the Whitechapel Murders (attributed to Jack the Ripper) - she was a 25 year old prostitute, killed November 9, 1888. I tried my best to blend truth into this little piece - her nicknames, the mention of Dean Street, the red handkerchief, her ability to speak Welsh, the name of her landlord's assistant (she was six weeks behind in rent at the time of her death), and the location of her murder. 66-66-10 is the location of her grave at St. Patrick's Roman Catholic Cemetery (no. 66 in row 66, plot 10).
"Mary Jane!"
I know the voice before I turn, and even if I hadn't, the clacking of Sarah's ridiculous heels on the stones would have announced her arrival. Her face is flushed as she totters toward her, those extra few pounds she's put on since she pushed out her last brat making her wobble dangerously.
"Watch you split your skull on the street," I say to her as she finally joins me. "You'll be just like Old Mildred over on Dean."
"Old Mildred got her brains spilt because she can't remember payday," Sarah sniffs, sticking her beaky nose in the air before she settles against the wall beside me. "Busy tonight?" I hum and shake my head, listening to her swish spit in her mouth before hacking it onto the pavement. "Not much hope for the rest of us, then," she mutters in her thick, hoarse voice, tucking her mane of frizzy curls behind her ears, "if not even little Fair Emma gets a bite."
"Lord's sake, don't call me that," I mutter, feeling my face flush, and tug at my apron, flicking specs of dirt off the white linen. She only makes matters worse by reaching over and patting the swell of my breasts, leaving sweaty and dirty fingerprints on my skin, giggling like a naughty schoolgirl in the process. "Oh... hells, Sarah!" I curse, and lick my fingers before I scrub at my skin. "Were you rolling around in a bloody coal pit?" I demand. "Not like I can go wash up before..."
I see it in my peripheral vision - a red handkerchief, carefully stitched at the edges, being offered by the tall, dark-haired man watching me, and my face flushes a shade or two darker as my words die in my throat. Mutely, I accept the piece of fabric and dab the last bits of Sarah's disgusting touch off my skin. She, however, wastes no time in leaning over, displaying the sallow curve of her tits and the paunch of her belly in her dingy grey dress.
"Hullo," she says, grinning. "Something you like?"
He's staring at me from beneath the brim of his hat - I can barely see the glimmer of his eyes, the smooth curves of his face. When he takes a step toward me I lean into the wall, and flinch when he grabs a lock of my hair, pulling it into the light as if for inspection.
"You're Ginger?" he says, though it's not a question. It's no surprise that he knows the name - most men in Spitalfields do.
"Oh she's a right fine ginger!" Sarah exclaims. "Natural, too!" The tired joke strikes her as exceptionally funny this particular time, and she guffaws like an ass in heat.
"You're beautiful," he tells me. He's still holding my hair, twisting it around a gloved finger. "More beautiful than they say. More beautiful than any woman I've seen." The intensity in his words makes me feel like I'm going to be sick. I want him to go away, but it's clear he's here for a reason. Nobody wanders onto Dorset Street without good reason.
"D... Diolch i chi," I stutter, and his expression finally changes, to one of mute confusion. "Thank you," I clarify.
"Ain't he the sweet talker?" Sarah jams a meaty elbow into my ribs, a bit too hard, my cue to get moving. It's not because she wants to see me do business. She just knows that if I'm occupied, there's more pickings for her, and she needs all the help she can get at this point. "Show the feller a good time, why don't ya? Less you want to be explaining to Tommy why you don't have his shillings?"
I push myself away from the wall, my stomach sinking, and he extends his elbow to me as if I'm simply his fair lass, out for a walk. I offer him the handkerchief, not wanting to stuff the blood red material into my pocket, but he shakes his head with a faint smile.
"A gift," he says, and guides me down the street.