Slick cobbled stones made it hard to run on bare feet. Portia kept losing her footing as she tried to get away from the brute that stalked her. The labyrinth of alleys held no secrets for her, and she sighed a sigh of relief when she stumbled into Carouser's Alley, a narrow street with dozens of small pubs with small lodgings on the upper floors. The throng of people, reeking of alcohol and opium were greeted by Portia as the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. She looked over her shoulder, body trembling and short of breath, but she saw no sign of her black-clad assailant. She felt some groping hands, but not even these could cause her any real distress after what the man had tried to do to her. She knew she had been very lucky indeed.
It had all started off as a normal night; he was customer number three. With the semen of her second patron still partially nestled in her pubic hair, she had sauntered off to a quieter place, not all too far removed from Kensington, hoping for a wayward dandy to hire her for an all-nighter. With her coquettish clothing and frilly bonnet on her head, she looked girlish and demure, and she always made sure she was as clean as possible; a feat not all too common among the other prostitutes around. A lot of them had vanished as of late. The stories of the man in black which killed whores relentlessly and without leaving any trace whatsoever had become the talk of the town, and people saw him everywhere. Everyone, from London Bridge to Bromley and even in Kent, everybody knew of the man who was dubbed the Ripper by the newspapers. But all Portia had heard was about a knife-wielding maniac who had red glowing eyes, stalking the grounds of Carfax Abbey and sacrificing whores for the Devil. She had no idea the man she curtsied to was that very monster. He froze in his steady pace, and tilted his hat at her, icy blue eyes taking her in. They had exchanged few words.
"You do not belong in Kensington, correct?" he said. Portia flashed her most innocent smile, making dimples appear in her rosy cheeks and when she shook her head, her blond locks wiggled from under her bonnet.
"I'm afraid not Sir, but I sure wish I could live here, in one of those adorable houses. I sure wonder what it's like to live there." She averted her face and sniggered for a moment. She could not recall how often she had said this. It was usually the prelude to a night spent in one of those houses, succumbing to whatever whims one of the more esteemed members of the Queen's society had bred, and she had bred some perverted fiends indeed. A heavy bag of coins made her forget all about the man's strange appearance in his black cloak and face hidden by an equally black scarf. He had rented rooms, and although she had seen more opulent residences, it was still far more impressive than the dingy room she shared with her perpetually drunken father and three sisters, who were all in the same line of work as Portia. When they had entered the main room, she tossed her bonnet to the floor and let her dress drop as well, revealing her pale, but otherwise rather supple and voluptuous body. The man scowled, his hands wringing on the knob of his cane. Portia got aroused despite herself; she brought her hand between her thighs and rubbed at her clit, her fingers greeted by her own juices, she massaged her left breast.
"I do hope I meet up to your standards, good Sir" she said in a husky voice", I would not want to see you disappointed." The man removed his top hat and scarf, a flowing mane of auburn curls falling onto his shoulders and an angelic face, all smooth curves and marble skin, with the gaze of a demon prince of hell boring into her eyes.
"You..." he said in a voice more like a snarl than anything else, "have already disappointed me to no end, my darling little harlot!"
She had heard of common people gaining enormous strength at times of great distress, and the only thing to which Portia could thank her life was this very thing. The man was fast, ridiculously fast, but also very clumsy in his anger. He brought his cane up high and screamed like a beast, but he had forgotten all about the door which he had left open. Every hair on her naked body stood on end as she leapt through the door, dress in hand, and fought a battle of equilibrium with the top of stairs for the barest of a second before she lost her footing and tumbled down the steps and into the hall. Every inch over petite body seemed to ache, every bone cracked and she clenched her teeth until they gritted, refusing to scream out in agony when she needed every bit of her wit to escape this man. She haphazardly threw her dress on, but she already heard the hurried footsteps of the man descending the stairs. She froze as she heard his snarl, he wore his hat and scarf again, letting his cane tap against the photographs on the wall, sending the frames flying, glass shards flying down and landing all around her. She covered herself and turned to run off, tiny shards digging into the soles of her feet. Tears streamed down her face as she ran into the street, but she did not sob at all, her breathing was shallow and she felt her lungs burning as she sped across the street and into the myriad alleys, where she knew she would have an advantage. She heard
him
scream; desecrating the relative quiet of the London night, a harried wolf's cry, making sure his prey knows he's out there. Portia ran as if blessed with wings. Some forgotten saint of yore must have come to her aid somehow, although the only person who cared about her up there in the heavens she could think of would be Mary Magdalene. The rains came, making her footing more slippery and she fell into dustbins and assorted clutter more than once.
But Portia was safe now. She saw no trace of the man in black, and only now it started to dawn on her how lucky she had been; the Ripper knew no mercy, and she was the first survivor of his not so tender administrations. She went into a pub and bought herself a bottle of red wine with the money which she had managed to bring along with her; a lady never forgets her pay. She downed half of the bottle, squinting and making a sour face as she swallowed it down. Her heart calmed down in her chest almost immediately and, emboldened by her newfound resolve, downed what remained of the bottle and threw it onto the floor. The laughter and crude remarks of the gathered men in the pub, nor the innkeeper's reprimand were able to get through to her. She spun around her axis, declaring "I'm a pretty girl!" to her audience and tip-toed toward the door like a limp ballerina. Portia was happy, and she felt like the strongest little whore in all of England. Her bare feet landed on the street and she gazed up at the night sky...and saw the Ripper standing on the rooftop opposite her, black cape fluttering in the wind. She couldn't find the air to scream, but ran off instead. She cackled while she ran.
"Constable help me, the Ripper's upon me! He wants to send my soul to Hell!" Some bystanders looked down the street, but saw nobody chasing her, nor anyone to be seen up on the rooftops. But as Portia looked up again and only found the moon gazing down at her, she heard the footsteps going
click-clack, click-clack
behind her, gaining on her. Then the fear broke through the alcohol and sent adrenaline shooting through her veins. She screamed and ran faster, devoid of any sense of direction, just onward, onward and onward. The rains were coming down faster now, and the cold clung to Portia like a wraith. Then the pavement and the sand gave way to thick, green grass tickling her feet. She had somehow managed to run all the way to Hyde Park. She dared not to look over her shoulder; she knew she was fair game and only had a slim chance of losing him by simply running away until he tired of the chase and gave up. The further she ran into the park, the more quiet it grew around her. She could hear her own heart beat, her own panting, and someone else's. She mustered all her courage to look over her shoulder but lost her vigil at the same time, walking straight into a tree and cracking her head against the unrelenting bark. She sank onto the muddy soil, her legs caving in from loss of control and sheer exhaustion. She saw the silhouette of a great beast approach her through half-lidded eyes, and then she lost consciousness.
