‘Huuuuuh’
I woke up gasping for air even before my alarm could sound its final buzz.‘Vivian Emmanuel Pavlow, you had better be out of those sheets,’ my mom screamed. This was exactly what I needed in the morning, a cup of my mother’s vociferated commands. Every morning would begin the same way but there was something about this day. I couldn’t really put my finger on it. I knew I had been dreaming a lot lately and they weren’t exactly pleasant and cheerful dreams. But every time I woke up I wouldn’t remember the dream I just had. But today was different. A part of me didn’t want to remember the dream I had. So I stopped thinking about it because I feared that if I thought hard enough I’d remember it.
Monday mornings were the worst. Actually every morning was hard enough. I didn’t even get a single day off. But that, I guess, came as a clause with my profession. ‘Crime doesn’t rest’ says Commissioner Sir Charles Warren, the head of The Metropolitan Police Department. It was impossible for a woman to get a respectable job. I was over qualified for the job I had. But it was either this or a stay at home wife, which my parents would prefer any day than the petty photography job I had. I think they would be fine if I had to take family portraits but since the photos I had to take were that of dead bodies, they objected to it. Well something’s better than nothing.
So I slid into the big boothlike shower capsule. Hot water is just what I needed, to wash off the cold sweat that slithered down my back. I wanted that water to wash away the feeling of terror that was growing inside me. But nothing seemed to be helping, not my cozy shower, not my cup of tea, not even the amazing pancakes that I had for breakfast.
From my spot at the dining table the bakery that stood opposite our house was clearly visible. That was Uncle Roberts’s bakery. He catered to almost half of London. I loved the smell of baking bread early in the morning. It gave me a sense of belonging. Uncle Robert was as sweet as his cinnamon buns. But something told me he was like that just to me, the only girl who at the tender age of eight was able to sneak into his factory and steal from him. Everyone likes a troublemaker. So everyday, before I head out for work I go past his bakery to wish him a very good morning and get myself one of those cinnamon buns I love and begin my day.
‘Vivian, you better finish those pancakes,’ she said. Growing up, I wasn’t a very big fan of my own name. Vivian Emmanuel Pavlow. The people I studied with didn’t make it all that easy. Ahhh, those days were dreadful. I’m just glad they’re behind me. I'm sure none of them were able to get themselves a respectable job. Surely, drunken Jean didn’t make it big. I think I even saw him driving a taxi once. Or that could have just been my imagination. They say if you really want to see something happen your eyes will make it happen and betray you in the process.
As I sat there at my dining table pouring some maple syrup on my pancakes, I heard it. That dreadful sound that made me remember. It was cold and dark, the street lights weren’t on, so I presume it was around 0400 hours, they usually switch off the lights at around that time as the sun would rise in about an hour or so. The carriage was led by black horses. It wasn’t just the horses, it was the whole carriage, the whole thing was black. This made it difficult to see. The carriage suddenly came to a halt. Cliché to all the nightmares everyone has, a hooded figure got off the carriage. His hands looked rough so he was definitely in a profession which involved manual work. His body was sleek but he was well built, shoulders were broad and he had a firm hand. He walked straight with his head up high, but his boots made this haunting sound. It was like something scratched the ground he walked on. Made his mark on it. It sounded exactly like a person scratching their fingernails on a chalk board.
That was exactly when the barking dog caught his attention, so he deviated from the direction he was moving in and walked toward the dog. I recognised that dog, it was Harry. But it seemed odd because Harry was the most cheerful dog I had seen in London and most importantly the reason he had been abandoned was because he couldn’t hurt a fly and he most definitely wouldn’t bark at strangers. But he was afraid of no dog. He removed something from his pocket bent down on one knee and fed Harry whatever it was he had in his hand, he was petting him and then suddenly without any hesitation he quickly slashed Harry’s neck.
That’s when I woke up and now it felt like I was reliving it. Even the thought of him sent shivers down my spine. But I had to know. I had to know if Harry was okay. So instead of stopping by Uncle Roberts’s bakery I ran down 12th main. I felt as though I was running around in circles. I looked everywhere and suddenly the place where I stood seemed unknown. Everything inside me was telling me to stop and run back because the last thing I needed was some kind of telepathic connection with Death himself. ‘Death’, that’s exactly what he reminded me off. The cold and forbidden feeling he gave me. The stereotypical black colour of his robes which is supposed to be some kind of a taboo. It all seems rather majestic to me. Was this a dream or reality? If it is a dream, do I really want to wake up?
