October Night

What transpires within the human psyche that causes a man to wish to kill another living soul? That is a question that many have asked themselves at least one point in their miserable lives. Some say it is the spirit of fear, or the spirit of jealousy that befalls the human mind, twists it, and causes it to gyrate unto its own selfish ends. Yet I know this not to be so, for I had not felt any of those things within my mind when the deed came into my thoughts. It was not fear that spurred me for what gain would I have had of destroying one weaker then I? And, if it were for jealousy, what would it have profited me to kill and then not take of the possessions he had formerly held?
No, I felt not any emotion’s that would have been named a sin well up within me that night of October that I had committed myself to murder. It was something higher, something that had, by cunning imaginations, forged its own character and used all other sins as its own slave. It was the spirit named by its own self to be utterly perverse and it had held my mind captive once I had committed myself to kill him. But why I wished to kill him, I could never be certain of.
I was never certain of anything within my life. For having been raised in childhood so utterly unfortunate, I am now ascertained that Oliver Twist had more luck upon his birth then I. From childhoods most early hours, however, I was shown to be one gifted with a rare intelligence beyond all that could be counted humane. After long working hours at the factories of London, I would capture small bugs and rodents and use them for my own experiments when I got back home. Home, as I called it, was not anything likened unto the poor. No, it bode far worse then their own hovels. Our small, fifteen-foot square house stood next to the railroad and more then often I would fall asleep to the sound of the express trains roaring by and shaking the small building.
It was not my parent’s fault that we had drifted below the poverty level. My father had caught a chronic disease some years ago, and my mother had to work as a bar maid and harlot just so that we could attain the basic commodities of life. I was still able to attain some schooling in those years, however. I had stolen books on history and on biology from a school and, through these, had taught myself (and my mother) to read and write.
In my pubescent years, the fortune of my family began to grow somewhat. My father’s health had finally improved and he was able to get a job working at the railroad station. My mother had stopped a-whoring by night and, for this, both my father and I were thankful. She still had to keep her job as a bar maid, but at least she was not lying with soldiers in order to bring food to our table. We moved to a better house and, between working part time for a hatter and pick pocketing, I was able to attend some traditional schooling. I was sent to one of the schools in London whom, at the time, was built by the city hall especially to give classes to young urchins such as myself. However, after my first two weeks there I proved myself to be far more knowledgeable then the teacher himself in matters such as history and the geography of the continent. Therefore, I was asked by the teacher to help teach the students in these matters and, in doing so, I was able to have my attendance fee discounted.
When I became a man, I had finished my apprenticeship at the hatter shop and worked as the store clerk for sometime. It was not to lucrative a trade, but it served to greatly lighten my parents financial burden and my mother was able to stop working entirely. It was an easy job too, required nimble and quick fingers, which I had also been gifted with as well. However, not all at my job was well for me. My employer had died soon after I had taken up the job and now his nephew, Bob Claybrook, took over the shop and, while my former employer was kind to me and my family, his heir was not. I had come to work a trifle late one day and Mr. Claybrook yelled violently at me and boxed both my ears. I, however, managed to keep my self-control about me. I had too. If not I would loose my job and my mother would to go a-whoring again. This, however, was not the only thing that caused my job to be less then desirable. No, there was one more thing. It was there, in that hatter’s shop, that I first met him.
He was a tender lad, less then fourteen, and his height and build was as a compliment unto his age. Thin, wispy, fingers came from short but well formed limbs. Dark hair and a ruddy face served to prove that he was a street urchin as I had once been. He had probably gone through the same experiences as I had during that time in my youth (Or, so I would have liked to believe.) He wore a gay little cap dyed bright blue and his clothes seemed in goodly order, albeit a little ragged. It was late in the evening when he had first come into the shop and Mr. Claybrook and I had just started to close up. He had come begging for food but my employer had shrugged him away saying that there was no food to be found here.
When his request was denied, I looked up upon him and my eyes locked with his. It seemed a torturous sight to say the least. His eyes were sad, lost, and mirrored his hunger in both body and soul. Oh, poor wretch that he was, I swear that when I looked into them I could see his past and all that he had went through in his life. At least I, in growing up, had a mother and father that I could call my own. I could tell however, that he did not have any and that, since early childhood, he was forced to live off the pockets of others so that he could manage to stay out of the poor house. It was then that I felt wretchedness enter my own soul, for I had been complaining all my life without moral cause. Here was one before me so poor that he could not eat—and I thought my life was bad and had spent most of my time after work in taverns drowning away my sorrows. I was a creature of fate as all humans were upon this miserable world, but this one kind fate had never known.
After that brief exchange of looks, the boy had left the shop and I had returned on my way to home. Still the haunting look within that lad’s eye vexed my soul so greatly. Why does God allow poverty to befall most of mankind while some are allowed to enslave others at a whim? This I had asked myself many times as I studied the history books. Man’s history was filled with poverty, the universal themes of death and war. Where was the love that men were made to govern all things by? Why had I had such a miserable life and existence? Were men born into poverty as a sport unto others that were above them in the social status? That is something that I had always wondered as a child. However, try as I might, I could never answer those questions.
Then there was that boy. Why was he allowed a more miserable existence then I? What right had he to rob me of my own inherent misery with but a glance into his melancholy eyes? In my childhood, all I had known was the sweat of my brow and the lash of the factory master. That is why I had captured small creatures. Somehow torturing them with my experiments seemed to bring a resemblance of twisted peace to my mind. My own peace came from the thought that I was the lowest of all men and therefore I could never be expected to judge another man. But how could one suffer to bear the thought that one had stolen his peace? What right had the urchin to rob me of my knowledge that I need not to judge one lower then I, as all men do when they are higher in the social strata? Perverse my own peace might have been, but it was my peace and mine alone. But now it was gone, and I was brought into a whole new plane of understanding that I did not comprehend and I felt so utterly alone. At least when I had my false knowledge of misery I felt that I need not fall to the sin of prejudice; but now prejudice stared me in the face and beckoned me, against my will to judge another human being according to his poverty.
Then, as I walked, a figure bumped into me. I recovered from the fall and the lad helped me up. I looked upon who it might have been that made me fall and sure enough, it was the boy. “Are you alright sir?” He inquired of me. To this, I nodded my head and assured him that I was just fine but something within my eyes signaled that I was not. It was that spirit that I had mentioned before. The utter perverseness that had come into my soul when I had began to walk home. Now here lay the object, the cause of all that had welled up inside of me. My mind beckoned, nearly screaming me to do the deed; I could feel the blood rush to by brain in anger as I beheld the one that had robbed me of my own twisted serenity.
The boy seemed to sense my own discomfort and inner rage. Why I was upset, it was evident he did not know. He just stood there; face as pale as a ghost in the moonlight, an utter look of horror encasing his eyes. How he could sense my feelings, I did not know—it was probably a gift that he had inherited from his living on the street. But I did nothing to show my contorted thoughts and evil imaginations. I held a smile on my face and a jovial look within my eyes. It cannot be said that I did anything to outwardly show the boy my grim intent. Then I realized it was my eyes, my two treacherous eyes, and the twisted look within them that gave me away. The utter terror of the deed that I contemplated within my mind screamed out from them, warning the boy to run anywhere, so long as it was from me.
The boy did just that; he turned and bolted leaving me there in the street. I just laughed quietly to myself and took chase after him. There was nowhere he could hide would make him safe from me; I knew every street in this section of London and many times had caught urchins as they tried to pick pocket me. Ha, Ha! It was not hard to follow him, he was surprisingly slow for his build, and I, with my long and nimble legs was soon able to catch up to him. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into the darkness of an alley, making extra sure to keep his mouth shut so that he could not scream for help.
The blood rushed faster towards my head, heightening my strength, intoxicating my senses and making them more keen then had ever been possible before. I could almost smell the scent of the adrenalin that flowed deep within my veins as a poison wrought of my own wicked deed. I could taste the sweat within my poses as if each one of them were as a thousand mouths each with tongues, each cackling with glee at my victim’s fright. A little ways away there was a basin with filled with water. I dragged the lad to it and flung his head into it until he was well up to the shoulders in the liquid. He began to struggle but it was to no avail. His kicks upon my legs, the beating and flailing of his arms against my face did not alter my intent. Rather, it spurred a greater power, a greater force within me and I grabbed his head with a crushing grip and began to beat his head against the metal sides of the basin. Blood came forth from a cut that I had opened by the digging of my nails into his flesh causing the water to turn red with his blood. There was one last effort on his part, one last flailing of the hands against my face, then he hung limp in my grasp.
The deed was done and I pulled him from the water bin and gazed intently into his eyes. There was no life in those eyes there, no utter misery that I had seen before, no story of how wretched his life was. I closed my eyes, the utter fear of having to judge this man according to his poverty was removed from me. My twisted sense of peace had returned to my mind, although the perverse feeling slowly began to ebb from me. I felt happy and I rose to my feet and began to sing a song of joy to myself but soon I stopped and looked at the lifeless body that lay at my feet. “What have you done?” My conscious screamed out to me. “In your quest to not judge you have judged and have sent this man to the grave. Is capital punishment a fitting judgment for poverty?”
Oh, how that thought haunted me, cut into me like one thousand firebrands each hotter then the pits of hell! What had I done in my own wish to regain what had been lost? Was I really sad to begin with? One would have said yes, but now I knew it not to be true. When I had seen the boy, I should have rejoiced because I was not as unfortunate as he. But would that not have been as equally as perverse as my killing him for, how can one judge what is perverse unless they judge by what is proven to be pure?
The peace I felt inside of me suddenly left me as those thoughts rang within my mind. Within its wake there was left a vacuum, a horror-filled fear of guilt and forever remorse at what I had done. I had wished not to be the judge of a man but I had killed him for disturbing my peace. Terror lurked within me, unstoppable and horrible, frightening my very soul. What would I do, to where would I go? Surely, someone from the windows above or in the street had seen the deed. The constable would soon be here and with him the iron fetters and the pain of living in my own remorse. I looked up, sure enough there was a constable standing in the opening of the alley, his truncheon pulled from its case, his face harder then steel.

“What is this here?” He asked of me.

“There has been a murder.” I replied. “Someone has killed this boy.”

“Do you know where the person who did this is?”

“No, I know not.” I managed to reply after some hesitation. “He fled when I came upon the scene.” The constable came over and looked upon the man then looked at me.

“Why this fellow is not dead! See here, feel his pulse. He still has a chance to survive,”

“What!” I cried, a slight bit more enthusiastic then I would have liked. I knelt down beside the body and felt his neck. Sure enough, there was a pulse, albeit rather weak.

“Why with a little air he should be fine, though he came quite close to death. Here help he carry him onto the street.” He said grabbing the boy’s legs and dragging him towards the opening of the alley. Terror filled me, but not the same as I had felt before. This was a new terror that filled my mind: the knowledge of being caught! It was inevitable, once the boy would recover he would identify me as the intended murderer and I would be caught. Then there would be no peace for me, only time, time and the slow rot of time as I would waste away in prison.
I looked up, the constable had already applied the proper procedures to the boy, and the boy was alive and breathing. Soon he would unleash his tongue upon me; soon my deed would be made known. I looked around for a way of escape but there was none. The alleyway ended at a high wall that stopped my way of escape. There was only one way, the start of the alley but that I did not wish to undertake. Did the officer know already? Yes, he knew, I could tell he knew. Although the boy was still unable to speak, I could see him staring at me with the utmost sternness. I knew he was laughing, though he did not let it come out of his mouth. His eyes laughed, laughed so cruelly at my own miserable plight. There was only one thing to do; I did not wish to leave in irons.
There was a stairway that went up for a ways and to this, I turned and slowly climbed the steps until I came to the top. The officer seemed to notice my movements for he came to the base of the steps and there he stood. I looked down at the cobblestone below me: it was a good fifty feet below. But something within told me not to jump, perhaps it was my conscience; perhaps it was the thoughts of my mother and father. But what could I do? Leave myself to fate and become as miserable as the one I had tried to kill? I felt as if I was torn into two pieces, but which could I choose? If I lived then my conscience would be cleared but I would waste away in my misery. If I died then threw would be no misery, only the thoughts of my deed to follow thereafter.
I looked into the constables eyes. They seemed to glow grimly under the moonlight. They were horrible, nearly death dealing themselves. Utter horror swept my mind as I contemplated what to do. I wish I could kill; kill him and my former victim that had risen from the dead. Had he really risen from the dead? No, he could not have existed in the first place. He could have been a sprite that I myself had invented within my mind, a mechanism which served to stub the growth of my misery of existence. But yet there he lay still, looking at me, glaring at me with those two eyes of his that sent chills down my spine and terror to my soul. I knew what I had to do and, laughing one last laugh from the depths of my being, I flung myself off from the steps.

As I fell, I felt all terror leave me for soon it would be over. The boy, my misery, my mother and father: all these things left me as I fell for soon all these things would be over. I hit the floor soundly, and all went black within my mind. Then, from the midst of the darkness came a bright light, but not as one that was white. It was an eerie light, a flickering light, hot and filled with red as if it were fire. Then I saw somebody step out from the fire and come towards me. I strained my eyes to look upon him, then recoiled with a gasp as horror filled me to the full. It was the boy that stood before me, and seeing him, all became clear. He was a temptation sent by Satan himself to haunt and me and I had given in. In my wishing not to judge I had condemned my own soul!