The Mind of Murder...

I cannot seem to learn how to master writing with my opposite hand and it irks me to see my script scrawled across the page like some half-witted child.

This blasted arm will not stop hurting. It throbs unmercilessly and if I did not know better, I would say that that God damned Jekyll has given me placebos rather than what he promised. I'm satisfied that I at least got to bruise the bastard...I know he could have been far more gentle in the setting and binding of my arm...

No matter, I'll pay him back, pain for pain.

Not one individual has come to see me. Not even Catherine. No doubt she's far too busy playing house with her gypsy or doctor with Jekyll. Of course I know that I've locked the door and refused any admittance but the maid, but that is not the point...they could have inquired.

Each day that I sit here, a bloody cripple, I simply get angrier and angrier. The lust to shed the blood of the unrighteous is strong, but not as strong as the need to make someone bleed...at all.

I have not seen her since the night the letter came and it is beginning to sorely test on my nerves, my patience, and my indulgence that I have shown her so far. I have made attempts, again and again, to have her regard me as a friend and yet she cannot share with me what has her upset? I'm almost, no I am angry with her, though I will not--hopefully--show it.

Then that insufferable Jekyll tries to get a rise out of me last night. Fucking busybody. It is none of his business what I choose to say to Catherine. He has gone and truly pissed me off, trying to outwit me. I can't believe I ran out of bloody things to say! I'll have done with him, one way or another.

I am going to see Catherine tonight, come hell or highwater, though I suspect it will be the former.

I am beginning to smell a rat about this house. After so long of living on the streets with murderers, thieves, cutthroats and all manner of riffraff, I can tell when someone is lying...or when they simply have something to hide.

Count Dracula has something to hide. Is every other fool in this mansion blind or can they not see that he is always conveniently about when an attack occurs? Catherine has now been attacked numerous times and how very touching that the good Count is always there...

I had once believed the fiend to be Jekyll, but since he's disappeared to play doctor with his personal midget, I can't really accuse him any longer. The attacks keep happening...and the Count continues to be on the scene afterward.

Fool. He should have disappeared afterward each time rather than lingering. I, admittedly, took great satisfaction in lingering in the shadows to watch those idiotic detectives and Runners examine and inspect my own work, but to stay on the scene...Thickheaded git.

He did show up with wounds on his own arm the other evening...I'll, perhaps, have to give it more thought...

The old desires are steadily returning. Dear, dear Catherine...convinced I merely have a little vice to indulge...But she is only a woman. I can't expect her to understand.

It's been some days now since I've been downstairs and having the maid deliver trays to my room three times a day has begun to grow tiresome on me, but I do think this self-imposed exile has been necessary.

I think it has been quite long enough that I have let the story breed in their minds--the ladies Linton and Murray...and the ears of the good detective--that I can now venture downstairs again. By now, with my absence, they have begun to think that I am in the lowest of moods, in the depths of despair, as it were, and I see no reason to let them think otherwise.

That knife was taken from me and I am sorely vexed over its loss. Those--who I know to be that knob of a detective and his posturing friend--that have taken it will be sorry. Most sorry. But I, for one, see no reason that I cannot take this event and turn it to my own advantage. The ladies are most offended that my person has been so grieviously injured with the theft. Even the imcomparable Miss Murray had pity in her lovely dark eyes. And Catherine...

Catherine...

I know that I should not continue in this attraction for her, knowing that she is a married woman, and yet...as long as the next fall she takes is with me, then...all will be forgiven. Women are weak creatures, damned to ruin the male of the species, pollute our beds with their foul diseases, desecrate our bodies with the remnants of their many lovers. But I have done what needed to be done. I have cleansed the streets of London with their blood. I have purified the future generations by removing at least a small number of those decaying whores, rotting from the inside out. And through my touch...perhaps I can save Catherine. Not every whore must die by the sword, as it were. Some can be sanctified.

I have just paused and looked at what I have written above.

So it has returned...

Sometimes I can just feel the need shifting below the surface. I look into the mirror and the aqua depths grow dark, just for a fleeting moment, something rises, moves, then submerges once again.

It exalts my soul...and yet it feels me with a horrible terror.

How long, I ask myself, how long before they will see beyond one of my many faces and see what truly lies beneath?

I cannot risk hiding up here any longer, lest they grow suspicious.

She's married.

Dear, lovely, Mrs. Linton...the woman I had hoped would make me the finest of paramours is married. What a terrible, dreadful shame. For her. Now do I plan to dispose of her faithless person or continue to pursue her and find just how far she dares sink into immorality? At this point, I'm just not so certain...Either way I could have a spot of fun. Even if I have not dared pick up my pen as of late in fear that I will mark this journal to hell. I ask myself, "Jack, have you gone soft and let a pretty face steer you from your course?" The answer is, most assuredly, no. Nothing will ever kill that conviction within me that immoral, faithless, lying, deceitful and filthy women can ever be worth more than the velvet lining of my bag.

But in regards to Mrs. Linton...we shall see.

Ah and the delightful Detective Holmes! What more can be said about such a man? He thinks he knows everything, the arrogant git. Threatening me with his so-called investigation, flailing about with his claims of proof, his convictions that I am some fiend that he will not even name.

He knows nothing.

And yet...this dance has just begun between us and even now, my blood hums in my veins at the prospect of anticipating each of my partner's moves. Will he make good on those promises? Will he supply this proof of Who and What I am? Or will he take the role of spectator for now and fool himself into thinking that I will sweat myself into a panic and make a full confession?

It will certainly be thrilling to find out.

I have the uncanny knack of being able to work a situation exactly to the way I want it and last night was certainly a brilliant example of that.

How the ever delightful Detective Holmes played right into my hands. He thought to engage me in a battle of subtle insults and tasteful barbs, only--to my mind--make himself look quite the part of the harrasser of my most put upon person...directly in front of the lovely Mrs. Linton. Does he really think that I can't see past his questioning? His carefully veiled words? I have the succinct feeling that Mr. Holmes knows exactly who I am...and while the thought does break me out in a sweat, it also fills me with the most delicious anticipation of continuing this little game of ours. Not one bloody, bumbling fool for either the Runners or the Yard could ever figure out my identity. That this man has, in so short a time, if indeed I am correct, is...astounding. If I didn't hate the knob so much I might respect him.

Later in the evening, I found myself alone in the company of the charming Mrs. Linton...Ah, now there's a lady that I could truly respect. I have heard she was once married...but her husband is not here. A widow, perhaps? Yes, she must be a widow, then. There is a pathetic sod here by the name of Heathcliff that quite imagines him her protector. Protector my ass! He certainly did nothing when Mr. Hyde assaulted her, according to the gossip mill here. I have to admit...I played upon that aspect last night and the expression in her fine eyes quite assured me indeed...the lady has no champion. We'll see about that.

I had it in my head to kiss her and see if she tastes as fine as she looks when we were interrupted by the good Dr. Jekyll and the vapid Miss Daae. Now that particular little piece of skirt might come under my notice later...for now, Catherine is my prize. Hmm...but my interest does waver awfully quick.

As it was...there is something about the doctor that disturbs me and puts me off. I can't put my finger on it...It's no matter.

But last night I do think I discovered something absolutely...perfect. Mr. Hyde is hated by all. There is not a one here who can tolerate him and after foolishly and stupidly assaulting the delicate Mrs. Linton, that secretive trollop of a maidservant, and that frigid bitch, Miss Murray, he has not in any way, shape or form, made himself agreeable.

If a guest wound up dead...and missing several of their most prized possessions...who would take the fall?

Not I.

I have been conspiciously absent this past evening...I do so hope the lovely Miss Murray forgives me for the ignoring of her delightful person.

However...

I pride myself on fearing nothing. Takes a lot to make a man like me break a sweat and when it does happen...well, I don't take too kindly to it.

But I find myself right pissed that that damned impertinent detective, Mr. Holmes, has decided to make me his latest project. Perhaps I flatter myself...after wandering the grounds last night and listening to idle conversation in the hallways, it seems that a Mr. Hyde has garnered all the attention. Maybe I can feel confident enough to wander downstairs tonight.

But if that nob tries to pry into me again and give me that "I'm on to you" look again, I swear he and that pipe might meet with a very unfortunate accident...

And apparently there's some new ladies about the house...

Me thinks I should make an appearance tonight.

Another black mood has descended upon my unwilling person and I daresay I shall not come out of my room this afternoon.

Oh, the company here is a jolly lot, but...there's nothing that is truly whetting my appetite for intent conversation and subjecting myself to their discussions. The gentlemen are a dull sort--even if I did get a rise out of that Heathcliff fellow and scare that gangly teacher pissless--and the ladies...

The ladies are another subject altogether. According to my conversation with the trembling Mr. Ichabod Crane yesterday afternoon, there are none of the sort here who would draw the most intense and hungry of my attentions. Not a filthy backflopper among them, alas, though I've heard I've not met all the ladies as of yet. Perhaps I may find a bit of fun afterall.

But in the meantime, there is not a thing wrong with wooing--or scandalizing--the more respectable and well-bred of the fairer sex in my new lodgings. I have to admit that watching Miss Murray get her dander up was quite entertaining...Perhaps I may find a willing and sanitary body amongst them in which to indulge.

And eventually, perhaps, I might have a less than pristine body in which to indulge my...more demanding needs.