In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  Convinced that this had been his only role from the start, Ethan knew if he never met any of these women and Jack the Ripper truly was one of the suspects the police considered, he most surely would have been hiding in the shadows, watching it all transpire while masturbating wildly as they were ripped apart by a maniac. He knew this perverted, deep-seeded sexual deviation must have always been hidden within him, the need to perform and receive satisfaction from both, sexually and mentally. His stroking only lasted a mere few seconds more as the compounded gift of visual and physical pain stimulation felt too intense to maintain control. The anguish was mindboggling. He climaxed on the floor beneath the desk, the ejaculation dropping between his feet, semen covering the blood splatter from his wound that had already stained his clothing and much of the wood floor. All he let out was a muffled grunt before collapsing, his body weight hitting the desk. Oh, the pleasure. Oh, the pain.

  Down on the street the drunken attacker was still trying to stab Abigail with his own vapid erection, only to fail time and time again in the effort. Either due to his intoxication or her earlier defensive knee to the groin, he couldn’t get it up and was so embarrassed, he gave up. Taking his frustration out on her, regardless of whether it was her fault or not, he spun her back around to face him. She stood in defiance, or in surrender in tribute to Ethan. Either way, she didn’t fight back. The man reeled back his right hand and with a clenched fist, punched Abigail in the mouth, causing her to crumble to the ground. He then knelt down and grabbed her blouse with both hands, pulling her half off the cobblestone to verbally castigate her for his inability to properly rape her. Tossing the girl back to the ground he stood over her and drove his foot into her stomach, causing him to lose his balance. Falling backwards from the force of the blow, he almost crashed into the old cart. Either from exhaustion or feeling defeated and deflated, or the sobering thought he might get caught, the man pulled himself up from the ground and staggered out of view, leaving behind some of his vomit, pride and his balls. Abigail was still on the ground, softly whimpering, holding her blouse together with one hand, grasping her stomach with the other. He was gone and Ethan figured she would soon vanish into the night, as well.

  Rising from the desk, he saw that he left an imprint from the sweat of his body, steam rising from the surface as the cold outside air swept across the same flat wood he had just been lying on. With his frenzied sexual urges satisfied, his wits quickly returned, as did his fuller awareness of the pain in his arm. As Ethan turned to walk to the dresser where the candle was lit, he almost tumbled from the pants and shorts still tangled around his ankles. Neither were spared the mixture of blood, sweat and semen. Leaning onto the desk, he stepped out of both, leaving them bunched up on the floor. Inspecting his wound by candlelight, from the wrist bone to halfway up his forearm, he had pulled back the top layers of skin which looked like crinkled bloody tissue at the top and bottom of the open tear. Ethan dipped his entire arm in the wide mouth water pitcher and began washing off the surrounding blood as the sting worsened. He’d cleansed the arm, rubbing his right hand up and down his left forearm, gritting his teeth from the unbearable throbbing sensation becoming more painfully apparent by the moment. He took a deep breath then yanked off the folded skin at the ends like ripping off a bandage, thus creating two deep caverns, a bloody mess on either end. Washing the wound, removing it from the water twice more to inspect it before he was satisfied with his attentive cleaning, he wrapped one of several rags around it to help clot the blood. As Ethan finished tying the knot with his right hand and his teeth, he heard a knock at the door. It could only be one person.

  Opening the door, concealing his naked lower extremities behind it, Ethan was right. It was indeed Abigail, standing there with one hand holding her torn blouse together. She stared at him with those enormous green eyes, her hair messed up and tangled in her bonnet. The left corner of her mouth was bruised, the blood dripping slowly from the corner of her lip where she’d been brutally struck. Ethan, now out of his perverse sexual trance was feeling exposed in more ways than one.

  “Are you alright?” He asked in an innocent tone, expressing his false interest. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

  Abby did not reply. She just stared at him. Then suddenly she held out her hand, palm up, in a gesture of required payment.

  “Oh, right. Yes.” He said as he realized what she was suggesting. “Can you...” Ethan paused. “Can you wait here a moment? Just a moment.”

  She numbly stared without saying a word as he closed the door, too embarrassed to let her inside with the current condition of the room, bodily fluids mingling with his clothing in a pile on the floor. Kicking the trousers beneath the desk to cover up the blood and semen, Ethan then drew a clean pair of pants and an undershirt from the bottom dresser drawer and quickly put them on. Then, from the inside of one of his shoes, he withdrew his wallet. Removing a generous payment for her, more than she would make in any normal month, he returned to the door, this time opening it fully to her. There they stood peering at one another, Abby wearing the same blank expression and Ethan without a clue of what to say. He held out the money in front of her as an offering.

  “This is for you. Sure you’re alright, then?”

  She took the money from his hand without breaking eye contact to count it then dropped her hand from the blouse, allowing the fabric to open, exposing her breasts. Covered in scrapes and bruises, red marks, literal fingerprints had been left behind from the monstrous man who had squeezed them so tightly. Stepping toward Ethan, she reached up behind his neck, pulling him down to her face. She kissed him, one long, passionate kiss on the lips. Just one kiss. Then she let him go, her eye contact never wavering, her expression never altering. Suddenly, Abigail turned away from him and walked down the stairs, disappearing from view.

  Ethan closed the door and stood there in a state of bewilderment. He’d put her through a hellish torment to satisfy his own kinky obsession yet she returned to kiss him tenderly, graciously. Watching her exit the building from behind the curtain, he felt soiled. As he crossed to the dresser, Ethan wondered what possessed Abigail to do his bidding that night. Peering into the mirror, he noticed the blood smudged on his face, a telltale sign of her affection. It had been transferred from her mouth to his as she’d kissed him with abandon. Smeared over his lips, streaked across his cheek, it appeared to be the work of an artist, a broad stroke of genius dashed across his blank expression canvas.

  “She loves me.” Ethan said to himself, reflecting on the kiss. Rationalizing her return as coming from love, not for money, she’d done what he had asked to please her man and make him happy in any way she could. He surmised that Abby saw him as he saw himself, as a god. She worshipped him. She loved him and he repaid her love with what, money? She didn’t want money from someone she adored, she desired only love in return. Ethan did not oblige. He stared at his reflection in the mirror but could bear it no longer, turning away from the painfully telling image. Feeling more battered than Abby, though her body bore the brunt of the encounter, his wounds were much, much deeper.

  As he looked down, his gaze fell into the pitcher swirling with the mixture of blood, semen and water. It symbolized his selfishness, revealing his insincere and uncontrollable self-gratifying urges. He’d used her to his advantage, allowing Abby to be ravaged for his pleasure. She loved him enough to do it. Revisiting the looking glass again, a mirror told the truth. Ethan was disgusted with himself. The eyes of a sadistic voyeur gazing back at him, the man was sickened by the sight, knowing what those eyes witnessed in the street below just minutes before. The memories of the heinous act now in full perspective, it caused Ethan to spontaneously vomit into the vase, as if purging his system of an evil demon which had held him spellbound at a window, exit wounds born of self-loathing. Coughing, retching, he spit out the residue remaining in his mouth, heaving it into the mouth of the pitcher. Gazing up again, he hoped not to see the malevolent eyes gazing back but there they were,
still attached to his soul. He then refocused once more on the smeared bloodstains on his lips from Abigail’s passionate kiss. It looked so beautiful before, innocent and pristine but now it was spoiled and soiled, mixed with vomit and malice. He began wiping it away with his fingers, watching while his hands touched his face. In that moment of sheer madness, Ethan beheld himself spreading the spew out around his lips, stroking his skin with the substance. Suddenly he began laughing maniacally.

  “You’re fucking losing it mate!” Hysterical, he mustered the words through his uncontrollable fit of cachinnation. In one moment he thought with reason, the next with madness and confusion. He saw himself as a god yet in his reflection, a demon. Ethan knew he was coming unglued, becoming insane. He’d felt rational enough to wipe the blood and vomit from his face, a natural inclination. In the process, some unnatural tendency took control of his psyche. Dipping both hands into the pitcher, he cupped them together, creating a makeshift basin. Staring into the lurid solution, Ethan inexplicably leaned over, splashing the outlandish liquid substance over his forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks and chin, making sure to cover every inch of his face. The oral spew that was captured inside the pitcher along with the blood and semen had found a destination on his features but nothing could disguise the monster lying beneath the assemblage of fluids he was using to cleanse himself with that night. The odor, texture and uncommon warmth of that polluted water jolted Ethan back to the present, causing him to glance into the mirror to view his revolting reflection, in search of himself. He started to gag again from the vile, vulgar image and smell of profuse fluids caked on his grimacing visage. Conceding to a stronger opponent, Ethan surrendered his will. He had lost all sense of normalcy and was, if not totally, at least on the outer fringes of insanity, a stark realization causing him to burst into laughter. Unwilling or unable to break the stare down with his alter ego, he watched himself slipping into the depths of depravity. Holding his hands up he began posing, making hideous, distorted facial expressions like someone trying to frighten a child senseless on Halloween as bizarre noises emanated from within the reflection of a mouth he didn’t recognize, entertaining only the irrational man staring back at him. His actions were that of a raving lunatic.

  The gradual spiral, a descent into madness still incomplete, Ethan felt the need, a compulsion, to remove the clothing he had just dressed in to receive Abigail into a room cluttered with his wanton disregard for her. Hurriedly stripping down to see himself naked and exposed, a more faithful depiction of the monster gazing back at him, Ethan grabbed the entire pitcher in both of his hands and lifted it over his head, tilting it, dowsing himself with the remaining concoction of grotesque waste water. Placing the empty vessel back on the dresser, it freed his hands to begin the typical roaming motions one would normally do during a shower but this was not the clean water he began with for the cleansing of a body. This was the baptism of a newborn lunatic. In a ritualistic manner, he rubbed the fluids all over his body. Touching his own skin with pleasure, he welcomed the irrational, sick and twisted new persona to inhabit his body, giving him free reign. If there were any remnants of the original Ethan remaining, the brilliant professor who stepped into the 19th Century through a doorway opened by an experiment, he was now being washed away, seeping into the wood floor and large area rug below his bare feet.

  The imbalanced, disturbed and demented person now solely occupying Ethan’s room began dancing around to a tune booming inside his mind, fancying himself to be Natalie Wood playing Maria in “West Side Story”. He spun in circles through a dark room, dancing with the shadows, softly singing “I feel pretty, oh so pretty!” in his best falsetto. Spinning and spiraling downward, as a boy Ethan used to be afraid of ghosts but now the ghosts of the 19th Century needed to be frightened of him. He considered, “If I am indeed, an unhinged madman then time will tell the sordid tale or, better yet, will keep my secret for eternity.” Ethan reclined in his saturated state. Lying on his bed, he reminisced, recalling the perverted erotic visual images he had seen and felt earlier. There he laid, allowing his fingertips to wander about his body as dark, disturbing thoughts occupied his mind, finally falling asleep just before the sun rose outside his now infamous window on the world.

  Ethan awoke midday in excruciating pain. It felt like each and every bone in his body was going through some merciless metamorphosis akin to growing pains. He was shivering uncontrollably, nauseated and sweating profusely, severe symptoms indicative of fever. During this period of hibernation the elements conspired to take him down for the count. He was certain his soaked, naked body exposed to the cold morning air had combined to invite a debilitating illness. Climbing under the covers he cocooned himself up to the neck and could sense his body temperature rising. It felt like fire, as if his blood was boiling oil. Ethan knew he had to remain underneath the blankets and sweat it out. The dreadful fever needed to break and do so quickly. It took a toll but didn’t take long before he became unconscious. Ethan did not open his eyes again until nightfall. Infection setting in, some insidious disease had made him delirious, staking its claim, fever spiking to a new high.

  When he next opened his eyes, Ethan did not know how long he had been gone, if it had been hours or days and he couldn’t have cared less. Happy to be alive, he’d been aware enough to know how close he had come to death at the height of it. Far from out of the woods, he was awakened by his own violent coughing, on the verge of choking, the illness still deeply embedded within his core. Barely able to muster enough energy to lift his head and look through the window before fainting again, “Physician, heal thyself” came to mind. There was no one to help Ethan, no one to do it for him, no appearance made from his friend Time as they had apparently lost track of each other on the journey, parting ways for the time being. During this state of confusion he could not determine how long he had been rendered bedridden and if he received visitors, he never noticed. Ethan was living (and perhaps even dying) in an Olde World where proper medical treatment was unavailable, a time in history when vaccines and antidotes were virtually nonexistent by modern standards. It was an era when it was not uncommon for people to perish from illness readily remedied in the not-so-distant future. He knew from the inception of this project, should such a happenstance occur, it would be a matter of self-preservation. There never was an option to visit that medieval place called a hospital. Not only did he lack the strength to make it over to Whitechapel Road, he would not allow these Neolithic barbarians to touch his body. His trepidation was well-founded. He could go in with influenza and come out as an amputee. There was only one option available to him. Stay put. “No one touches the body of a god, no one but my Maggie.” With that final thought, Ethan again slipped away.

  During one of his rare, lucid moments when regaining consciousness, he awoke frighteningly dehydrated. He’d had nothing to drink, no water since falling sick and he had no idea how long that had been. If he didn’t replenish his fluids immediately Ethan knew he could slip further into an illness that may debilitate him to the point of no return. He knew what he had to do. It was either early morning or just before dusk judging by the color of the sky outside his open window. Hoisting up his weak body, he had to force himself to eat and drink something or he’d surely succumb to what ailed him. The closest well was too far for him to manage. Pulling out money from the pocket of the trousers laying at the end of the bed, he struggled to dress in fresh pants and an undershirt then wrapped himself in the blanket to leave the room. He could hear the murmuring of voices downstairs, assessing it was late afternoon or early evening. As Ethan entered the kitchen he found six people dining together.

  “Good Lord! You look like death!” One man’s harsh remarks caused the others to look in his direction. “Ya reek, mate...spoilin’ our meal here. Ya need a bath and a doctor...or a trip to the Death House. Be off with you, then.”

  Like a pitiful little boy in desperate need of assistance, not knowing who to ask, Ethan held out the money in his trembling h
ands for all to see.

  “I’m willing to pay if someone would be so kind as to fetch me some well water and perhaps a spot of tea and whatever food from the kitchen I can barter. I haven’t eaten for some time and have had nothing to drink.” Forcing his words through the coughing spell those present surely found downright toxic, he wiped his face with the blanket. No one responded to his plea for help. It was obvious they did not want to be contaminated by him and would’ve likely preferred he leave the room entirely. Overcome with weakness, Ethan said nothing more as he dragged a chair out from beneath the table then sat down alone near the hot stove, pulling the blanket around his hunched shoulders. An older woman was sitting with her son. She stood up from the bench, approaching what appeared to be a dejected, decrepit old man.