Love Never Dies

Somewhat as a hawk would spy upon its prey, Jack Frasier looked down upon the dull London morning from behind the large, murky panes of the window. The dirty streets below bustled with life, much like flies flitting over a slowly decaying corpse. Uninterested by the scene, he turned away from the glass, wiping his pale, thin hands on a bloodstained rag as he merged back into the darkness of his barber shop. Occasional noises broke the unearthly silence that choked the room; metallic clangs and resonant ululations reverberated up through the bare floorboards, muffled as they clawed their way skywards within the old, dank terrace house. The door opened.

She entered the room, her long, black skirts trailing along the floor behind her. The pale grey light of morning did little to illuminate the room; its disused radiance cast a ghostly pallor over her snowy white complexion. Silently, she glided across the threshold like a spectre and proceeded to clean the objects on his counter.

"Elizabetta, love," spoke a low voice. She froze. Startled, her heart fluttered inside her chest; acknowledging his presence a pang of fearful anxiety clenched her stomach as she turned to face him. Yet at seeing his face she could not help but feel a wave of desire wash over her, a smile tweaking the corners of her lips. Arms outstretched, she came up to him and embraced him, burying Jack's face in her tumbling chestnut locks. Yet as she pulled away, she noticed his eyes momentarily flicker from her face, towards the deep, partly healed scarlet wounds that flowed like red ribbons down her arm, the congealing blood glimmering through her torn sleeves.  

Jack's voice was soft and very low as she stared back into the pale, unhallowed yet handsome face and the endless, deep tunnels of his black eyes.
  "Business is running rather slowly today, is it not, darling? I usually get much more orders for the" – a muffled scream sounded from beneath their feet as he spoke –"short back and sides. Or perhaps it's because our dear customers have caught on. Perhaps there is, a somewhat foreboding air to our fine establishment. Or perhaps, the sweet pie maker downstairs hasn't been putting in such a good word for my services? Tell me, sweetheart, have you been selling many pies lately?"

There was no reply.

Slowly, Jack leant towards her, his grip tightening on her arm. She winced, but still no words came to Elizabetta's lips. Towering over his frightened lover, he edged towards her a little further still, his tall, slender frame partially blocking out the meagre light from the tarnished windows.

"Did you tell them, darling? Did lovely Lizzie warn them not to go upstairs?" A twisted smile crept across his lips; Jack always took particular pleasure in terrifying her. There was something about how her large dark eyes stared petrified into his that he thoroughly enjoyed. To him, she always seemed prettier when she was scared.  Stroking the vicious slits along her arm, he murmured softly into her ear, in a voice of mock concern –

"Because if she had, oh, that wouldn't be very good for business at all." Again, but lower now, "No. Not. At. All. Especially not for my lovely Lizzie." There was a pause. Elizabetta did not know what to say. One had to be very careful around Jack; one had to say exactly the right thing as he was very unpredictable. Proving her point, Jack's lips trailed a line of kisses along her jawbone, causing her to let out a lusty sigh before he raised his head and said,
  
"Do I have to teach you a lesson again?" His hand patted his trouser pocket as he said this; Elizabetta heard the slight metallic clang of one razor clinking against another. "It would be tragic if my hand were to slip to, oh, I don't know, here," he grinned, grasping her tightly by the throat; his hand, still smeared with blood from her arm, closed all the way around her slender neck. She gasped, but did not struggle for she sensed all too well the razors that sat in Jack's pocket and the macabre instruments that lay on the counter; all she could do was plead with her eyes. A small, sadistic smile played on Jack's perfect, full lips.

He spoke faster now, his mind in a dark reverie, the words flowing fast and frantic. "We don't want to have another little accident again, do we, my love? I assure you; it would pain me greatly to spoil such a pretty little thing like you, one so close to my heart, but desperate times call for desperate measures, my sweet -"
The blade glinted as he held the razor against her throat.  

                                                                
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The dark rain clouds loomed ominously in the steely grey sky above as the gentleman shuffled his way along the narrow, unevenly cobbled backstreet in the dull gloom. A dense layer of fog hovered eerily above the ground like a white veil, obscuring the vision of its victims as it consumed them in a bright haze. Possessed, it swirled round his ankles as he continued on his journey, the curling, searching wisps floating silently along the floor. The late morning air was filled with a harsh cold, a bitter, cruel cold that pinched at his fingers and scratched at his cheeks. However his feet kept the pace with conviction, well in the knowledge that a roaring amber fire and a pair of warm slippers awaited them at home. The elderly man was just contemplating whether to eat his meat and potato pie with or without gravy when he stopped.

'What was that?' He thought.  Scanning around quickly, he strained his dull ears and listened again. There it was.

A scream. A female scream.

It shattered through the air, a long, harsh, cold note, held at a piercing pitch that was sharper than glass. From the high walls either side of the street, it bounced back and forth, causing his skin to crawl at the pain it conveyed. Plucking up the courage from his core, the man hastily ran to where he believed was the screams source, to where it was most prominent and most horrifying.

Panting, the old man came to a halt outside a barber shop door, his heart pounding in his chest. The sign behind the glass read open, yet no light or movement could be seen from behind the weathered, peeling door. Cautiously, he entered, closing the door softly behind him. In front was a dark, narrow and crooked staircase; a door stood, slightly ajar at the landing above. He stepped forward into the shadow. Completing his ascent, he stood motionless before the ornate door, his heart laboured against his ribcage. It seemed even darker in the room before him than it was out on the staircase, and the man had half a mind to turn back, but suddenly he heard a shuffling and a quiet sob that sounded shockingly close. With a shaking hand he grasped the cold handle, held his breath and edged silently into the dark, cold room.

Nausea struck up inside his stomach as soon as he entered; a small smattering of crimson blood glittered harrowingly upon the bare floorboards. Then, he heard a soft whimper beside him. A beautiful woman stood in the corner of the room observing him with a strange manner of fear and relief, yet pity. Agonised, she clutched at her side. From between her two, icy white hands deep red blood was trickling over her fingers and seeping into the black lace of her dress, causing a dark vermillion halo to form at her side.
Her eyes widened in horror, as she screamed, "Jack, no!"And the old man turned around just in time to see a dark shadow leap towards him.

Pain seared through his chest.   

Then nothing.