#writing #writer

Okay, this one is pretty dark and violent. I am of course looking for any feedback at all...

‘Lipski’- a work of almost absolute fiction

‘Lipski!.’
i heard him call it and i backed up into the shadows.
his back was to me. he did not see me.
they never see me.
i am always in the shadows.
i have always belonged in the shadows.
i do not know who he was calling to, or at, though i was well aware what he meant by that name.
Lipski.
i would never use acid. not even on a whore.
definitely not on an angel.
poor miriam.
but a pregnant woman. there’s the rub.
my knife would need to slake its unquenchable thirst if there was a baby in the belly.
i watch him argue with her. i watch him throw her to the ground.
i watch from the shadows.
his back is broad.
she is so thin.
he spits and says something to her.
something rude.
something very impolite.
there is never a good reason to be impolite.
i wait in the darkness.
in the shadows.
i feel the cold rain against my skin.
the rain may touch me, but nothing else ever will.
not these two.
not the police.
not the many who hunt in all the wrong places for me.
i wait.
i am so very good at waiting.
that is how i survive.
that is how they never see me. that is how even when they look right at me they still do not see me.
i see but i am not seen.
i cannot hear the exact words that he says to her now but i know that they are cruel. hateful.
he is not polite.
he deserves to be gutted like a pig.
but my knife does not want him.
it does not want him.
my knife is thirsty for her.
my knife is always thirsty for female flesh.
i wait in the shadow as he spits and froths and yells at her.
she does not even try to get up.
instead she holds out her hand towards him. there is something wrapped in tissue that she is holding out to him as if in some kind of offering.
she says something. mutters something.
she is drunk. i think I detect just the hint of an accent.
she is not a jew.
no.
the accent is something else.
not yiddish. though her words might well have been.
she is not a jew.
i don’t know if it really matters to my knife, but it is important to get things right.
he answers her in an angry voice, more impolite pig words and she just lies there holding out the wrinkled paper in her hand, her left hand.
it is important to get things right.
the rain is beginning to slowly stop.
i wait.
i watch.
always i watch.
and then the man turns and stomps into the club where i can still hear them singing.
the woman doesn’t move. she doesn’t try to get back to her feet.
she just holds up, like an offering, the tissue paper.
i am ready.
i step forward, more silent and blank than the darkness itself, with my knife now free in my gloved hand. so thirsty, always thirsty.
and she cuts.
my knife cuts.
i grab hold of her scarf, pull it tight around her throat and she makes a small sound, a tiny gasp of ‘ah’ before i cut. pulling the blade across her throat and then back, feeling muscle and perhaps bone give way. hot blood oozes and dribbles onto my skin at the edges of the glove that still holds the scarf so tight and i let out my own soft almost silent gasp of ‘ah’ and it is done.
that part is done.
i let go of her scarf, wiping the blood off on her filthy clothing.
she smells bad. they always smell bad.
but there is also the smell of mint for some reason, coming to me even in the damp air.
her head sags softly against the dirty brick wall.
i cannot see it but i can picture her blood pooling into the gutter that runs along the wall.
now.
now.
now it is time for the next part.
the most important part.
i grasp my knife and i crouch down, ready, oh so ready, when...
when...
no.
no no no no.
not now.
not now please dear lord.
a horse cart.
i can hear, i can almost feel the horse’s heavy steel clad feet on the stones.
so close. too close.
too close.
i slip back into the darkness.
my knife’s thirst is not yet quenched.
i make no sound.
i am as silent and as still as the darkness.
i see the shadow of the horse as it comes through the archway and rears to one side. it is old, tired and worn down, as all horses are in this place.
perhaps he smells her blood.
perhaps he, the horse, sees me and knows me for what i am.
even an old worn down cart horse knows the darkness in a man can be darker than than the darkness itself.
and then i see the man on the cart, his shadow liquid in the darkness, the faint mist of his breath in the fetid air.
he curses and lumbers out of the cart, hurling more curses at the tired old horse as he grabs its bridle to try to force the horse forward. but the horse will not budge.
the horse is no fool.
he knows that he is in the presence of evil.
the man lets go of the bridle, fumbles in his pockets and then strikes a match.
i fade back further into the darkness.
perhaps it is now, finally now, that it will all come crashing to an end.
i am not afraid.
i am not sorry.
except that i did not get to do the next part. except that i did not get to do the most important part.
the man does not look down right away. he is looking at the horse, still cursing the poor tired and frightened beast.
the poor frightened horse.
this man is not polite either.
so many are not polite in this place.
the flame burns down close to the man’s dirty calloused fingers before he looks down and sees.
the match goes out and he lets out a strangled scream, as if it had been him who had just had his throat cut.
the horse looks at me.
the horse looks right at me.
i don’t think that horses can see in the dark. maybe he can smell me.
the man runs into the building where they are still singing. i see his shadow moving through the doorway and for a brief moment i think about finishing the job on her.
my knife is not yet satisfied.
my knife is not yet sated.
but, no, she is not to be the one. she is not to be the one tonight.
quickly i move past her and i move past the horse, giving his muzzle a quick pat.
and i walk, not run away as the crowd gathers behind me and i begin to hear the screams.
i am just one of the many walking the high street.
i am always just one of the many.
perhaps i will find another tonight.
i would like to find another tonight.
my knife is still so thirsty. my knife is still unsatisfied.
‘Lipski.’
i still hear the memory of his voice calling that name.
i would never use acid on an angel.
i would never ever use acid on an angel.
i would never even use my knife on an angel.
not an angel.
never an angel.
it is important to get things right.