October 7, 1789
Eugene Epinthale My Dear Cynthia,
Never has the sky seemed so gray. London is a terrible place. The
streets are slick with dirt and sewage. The people are either hungry and
disgusting or caked in Paris' finest makeup (and still disgusting). I dote on
your warm caress far too long each day. I miss you. The sky is ever so gray
here.
Isabel, on the other hand has taken to it as she would any social
ladder: like a parasite. Our house is filled with dishes from china,
tablecloths from Italy and Belgian chocolate. The chocolate I do not mind so
much. The table is set each night with an outlandish array of dishware. I
hardly know where to start. On top of all of this, she has hired both a
servant and a cook! She tells me it is how the people of London live. She is
on a cultural rampage to banish the country from my very soul. I cannot allow
it, however, for I have left something very important behind. Oh, how I miss
you, my sweet Cynthia. She never looks on me how you do. I am one of her
dishes from Hong Kong that she spit shines every now and then. Her stark eyes
and elegant hands prick my conscience. She is an incredulous woman.
On another note, my business is expanding pleasantly. I have
developed enough clientele to break even weekly. Henry, a man down the road
who's wife is infatuated with Isabel's scarf collection and demands to have
tea with us twice a week, is in a related field and has agreed to refer some
of his clients to me. That's all very encouraging. My business, however,
is not enough to occupy my mind. It wanders often to your dark curls.
As I'm sure you have gathered, I have not settled into London
quite yet. Your scent haunts me on my coats and on my pillows. My mind strays
little from you and I eagerly await your response.
Sincerely, Eugene
September 1st, 1789
Darling Cynthia,
It was wonderful to receive your letter. I am grateful of your
confirmation that you still feel for me the way that you did before I left.
Congratulations on your new house. It all sounds lovely and I hope you
remember me as you gaze out over the moors.
The life that I am living is becoming even more solitary, due to
the continual disappearance of Isabel. She leaves after breakfast, sometimes
drops in for lunch, and is out again until far past the time I close my eyes
to dream of you. Late the other night I awoke ever so thirsty. On my way to
the kitchen, I heard a wretched moaning. It was hoarse and intense. This
leads me to believe that Isabel has found a gentleman to boss about. There
have been the most remarkable changes is her countenance since we left the
country. A few evenings ago she invited some of her new acquaintances over
for dinner. Her cook prepared a spectacular veal which melted in my mouth as
if it were butter. Isabel's guests were of the highest rank in London.
They prated over the queens hair, and a certain dress that the prince had
commented on at a party the week before. They used every single utensil set
before them only once.
All this was quite impressive. The strangest thing was that Isabel
was absolutely charming. She was witty and interesting. Her eyelashes flitted
in each direction she looked and she bent all the way forwards to retrieve
the salad, displaying a bosom that I had remembered as utterly
uninteresting. The guests related to her as a high standing individual in
their society, even vying for her interest and attention. They spoke to me in
hardy half mocking tones, taking false interest in my business affairs and
telling me utterly boring stories of Isabel saying ridiculous things when she
had had a bit too much wine. It was all a great shock to me. I though
Isabel had been shopping from noon to night, when she had created a social
circle entirely centered around herself. I feel as if I have been very naïve
to underestimate my wife so boldly. I never thought her capable of humor, let
alone flirtation. I was very much in the dark until now. I have been steeped
in memories of you, blocking everything else out.
I miss you terribly and feel more alone now than I have for all my
time in London.
Sincerely, Eugene
September 8th, 1789
Dearest Cynthia,
I am aware that I have not even given you due time to respond.
However, I am in need of a confidant and I trust no one more than yourself. I
have a gruesome reality to relay. My hands quake as I explain.
Last night, I was woken by a hoarse yelping. It sounded through
the hall ways. These were not cries of pleasure or adulteress love making. I
was sure that it was a horrible dream. I ravaged my room for the little clock
that I keep on my night stand. I watched it. The clock ticked. The hands
moved. The screaming continued. I was not dreaming.
I scaled the creaky stairs carefully and clutched the brass handle
of the door to the attic. Suddenly the screaming stopped. It was very abrupt.
The silence was followed with strained accusatory whispering. One of the
whispers was Isabel's. She was the calmest. There were other male voices. I
deciphered the cook and the servant. The fourth one sounded familiar, but I
could not place it. They sounded distracted enough that I could crack the
door open.
I wrenched it about an inch open and saw four figures garbed in
surgeon gear. Isabel was gesticulating at something that she stood over which
was blocked from my vision. Two of the men held trays and the third held a
large cooler open. I heard a sickening sound then. It was a sawing… a
systematic tearing of flesh.
I saw Isabel's delicate fingers clenching tongs. As she raised
them up to the cooler, I saw a long wet strip of muscle dangling from their
grip. I wretched. I pushed the door further open. I then saw what she was
removing the strip from.
A fresh corpse was laid on the table . Its, or - her hands and
legs were strapped to the bed with twisted pillow cases. Each limb was
missing layers of rectangular slices of muscle. Her calves had both had the
most damage done to them. Her face was limp. It looked exhausted.
Isabel's face was gray. The man next to her was whispering
excitedly. I recognized him now. He had been at the dinner party the week
before. I cleared my head to listen. "Isabel, it's very sad, but now we
have access to some of the parts that no one has been able to try before.
This woman could make us millions of dollars, but we must harvest it all
right this moment, or it will be stiff." At that, Isabel swallowed hard
and brought down her knife, taking the woman's bluish lip between her thumb
and pointer knuckle.
I stayed for a long time at that doorway. I am sure this has
already been enough for you, so I will spare the rest of the details and
relay in simple terms what I learned of my wife's new - found inner circle:
The rich of Europe get bored with their money and turn to taboo things that
cannot be accessed by those without money. Some, namely, have been mass
erotic parties and opium dens. There is a new taboo trend seeping through
London and there is only one supplier. Her name is Isabel Epinthale. She is
the only person cold enough and greedy enough to undergo the massively
profitable and massively disgusting business of harvesting human flesh for
the purpose of consumption. Up until the night when I heard the screams, no
one had died to produce the incredibly tender meat. Isabel had brought in the
poor and wretched from the streets of London and offered them one hundred
shillings for each strip of flesh. Many, apparently, had agreed. Some had
even become regulars. The woman that lay lifeless on the table was a regular.
She had a horrible drug addiction. She would intoxicate herself in order to
numb the pain of surgery, use the money she made to buy more drugs and then
do it again. Fortunately for Isabel, she will not be missed.
The horror of my story is disastrous to your ears, I know. I
cannot sit still. I quake with the image of her shredded body and still more
with the suspicion that I have ingested a slice of one of her limbs under the
guise of a specialty that Isabel served her guests. But, my sweet and ever
devoted Cynthia, if you would have me, I wish to come back to the country. I
cannot live among the monsters of the upper class of London.
Sincerely yours and hoping to escape,
Eugene Epinthale
g if you cannot bear it, sweet lady. I do not wish to expose you to evils
that until now have eluded your pretty world.
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