The Dastardly Crimes of Eden Mandrake

WARNING: SENSITIVE CONTENT

SUBSTANCE ABUSE, PHYSICAL VIOLENCE, GORE, AND ABUSE

I consider myself to be a very impatient woman.

But to put it simply, I consider myself to be quite an intelligent woman as well, even if it may not seem like so to some, due to the manner in which I speak.

The fact of the matter is that men rule our world. They have dominated countries, braved the strife of war, and therefore have made it so that everything revolves around them.

I am not against this. In fact, I adore it. This is what makes a woman like myself so intelligent- and honorable, for I understand how to be among the male society more than anyone, or more so, how to survive it.

“ What are you thinking of, m’lady?” the man on my couch had asked.

I answer, as I am sitting in a white plush chair next to him, “ How do you mean?”

“ You’ve been quiet for a while,” he said, taking another swig from a green bottle. “ You were much more engaged in conversation at the library.”

“ I have been trying to think of a poem that I wanted to recite to you.”

He laughed, “ Oh really?”

“ Yes.” I spoke, “ Something more for the mind to dwell on, unlike the one I had recited last.”

“ I thought it was quite provoking.”

“ You find poems… that speak of the future… provoking?”

“ Indeed.” The man took another couple of huge gulps from his green glass bottle and shifted in his spot on the soft, comfy white couch.

His blue eyes began to grow heavier, and he was speaking less. This was how I knew that it was starting.

“ To dwell on such things is a lamentable squandering of precious hours. Hours that could be used…to decide on how to embrace the present.”

He wiped his blue coat and chugged the rest of the liquid inside the bottle before setting it down on the shiny, wooden coffee table. Then ran his pale fingers through his short, curly blonde locks.

So beautiful, I thought. Much more than a…witch like myself. Or so they liked to address me.

I smiled at him. “ Pray tell… are you falling… into a slumber…Mr. Gilman?”

“ It appears so,” Mr. Gilman said, quietly- in almost a murmur. “ It appears…that my legs don’t seem to have the…energy to move.”

“ Do not stress, my good sir,” I say, standing up from my seat.

I dust off my white gown, “ You are to sleep here until your energy returns sufficiently to return home safely. I shall procure you a blanket.”

“ I…” He slumped back into the couch and put a hand on his heart. “ That…won’t be…”

I double-check the living room in which we reside. Staring through the burgundy silk curtains draped over the windows. Making sure that neither I nor anyone else could see what unfolded behind them.

Not that anyone could, as the house was surrounded by miles of trees and gardens.

Mr. Gilman began to breathe heavily, “ I…can’t…why I can barely move…”

I picked up a second green bottle on the wooden coffee table- one that was within my proximity and opened it, before walking up to Mr. Gilman’s couch and putting it up to his mustachioed lips.

“ Shhh….” I said, ignoring the feeble attempts of his hands trying to grab mine, as I made him drink from the bottle.

He swallowed the whiskey, and not long after…he was asleep.

I then prepared the wheelbarrow and carried the man into it, before pacing down the hallways that were lined with white walls and laced rugs to accent them.

So much white, I thought. That’s why I can never just do it at the house.

That’s why I would do it in the woods on my parents’ land, and take a very long walk to my favorite spot. Where no one had dared to look, due to the gates that rested miles and miles away, to protect the precious cargo that was the gardens that supplied my father’s work.

I believe I’ll do…rope this time. I thought to myself. He was quite a bore. Therefore, I should make it quick so that the journey home won't be as perilous.

I combed through sharp branches, passed a large rock, then crossed the river and big Larry, the largest tree in the woods. I named him when I was young, when I played in the woods alone.

After big Larry, there it was—my favorite spot.

A clear spot of land about a block long, just made of dirt, surrounded by black trees, and had branches that were so intertwined that the trees formed a circle around the spot of land, and made it so that it was impossible to peek through them. All except for one tree.

One tree had a branch thicker than a door, stretching out over the circle.

Thankfully, it was also low enough to throw things on it. Much like the thick rope that I brought along with Mr. Gilman in the wheelbarrow.

I tied a noose around the sleeping man’s neck, then threw the other side of the rope around the tree branch. And held on to the other end of it tightly.

Then, I waited until he began to stir into consciousness, and pulled the rope down, lifting Gilman from the wheelbarrow and tightening the noose around his neck.

Watching him gag. Watching his legs moving frantically in the air as he cries for help.

It almost made him look like a sissy. It could’ve made me laugh. He was much more frantic than the others.

But- it is as I have said. I adore the way that men rule our world.

That’s what makes it so entertaining to watch the life leave their eyes. That’s what makes the death of a man more enticing than anything else the man could do. To watch the power and the grandiosity that they thought they had leave their eyes the second that they realize that they’ll perish.

Out of all the eighteen men that I’ve killed so far, that’s all that they’ve been good for.

At least, that’s what I had initially thought.

But when I returned to my parents’ home with the empty wheelbarrow, I had found something interesting in the newspaper.

Two killers are on the loose. Fifty victims.

A Man…and wife.

How peculiar. I thought. That’s the third time they’ve been in the newspaper.

Fifty victims. The last time, there were only thirty. They had killed twenty more people before they were spotted by the yard.

A couple of weeks later, when I hanged another man by the name of Darthwood, I said to myself again.

Fifty victims. Fifty!

What made them different to me? They’ve only been in the news for the last year. I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen years young.

I pondered this as I tied a large bag of rocks to Mr. Darthwood’s ankle- I decided to drown this one.

When I had bound Darthwood’s hands, I had realized.

It’s because…they’re married. Because they were companions.

I had pondered many nights whether I should do the same. After all, it would be much easier to form an alibi for my doting parents of where I resided if it was needed. The chores that I do around the house would appear much more reasonable if all I said was, “ Oh, this? This is a favor for my husband. I'm taking his tools out.”

It took until another two men, who were both burned at the stake, for me to fully realize it.

I needed to find a husband. A partner. Someone to help me kill.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried so thoroughly the traditional means. Ever since I was of age to become a debutante, I have awaited and longed more than anything to find a man who would appreciate my talents.

But after dwelling on the parks, and ballrooms- I have yet to be courted.

And due to my long nose and the large mole that rested upon the bridge of it, courtship was likely to never occur.

Besides, if I aim to gain a husband who will do untraditional things, I have to obtain him by untraditional means, by any means necessary.

The opportunity to do so presented itself to me, like it was a sign from God.

I heard a knock on my bedroom door while I was reading.

“Dearest Eden! May we speak with you for a moment, below stairs?” My father said from the other side.

When I beckoned at their call, they were both sitting on the soft, white couch. When, just a few nights ago, Mr. Winslow had sat.

“ We had been doing some thinking, and we decided we’re going to go through with Mr. Holloway’s offer. Therefore, we will be gone for a few fortnights to assist him in London with running the store and selling our products, and so we have time to help him advertise to increase our sales.” My father announced.

My mother asked if I would fare well tending to the house on my own, since we didn’t wish to waste money on servants, and asked again if I wished to accompany them on the business trip.

As always, I declined. For being a debutante in a completely different city wasn’t appealing. At least in Cotswolds, the name-calling of “witch” was lightened by the fact that I knew most of the people who would tease me.

To be known as an ugly witch to people I haven’t made an impression on was more embarrassing.

And I despised being made a fool.

Anyhow, they said their farewells and requests for letters the day after the announcement, and took their carriage to London.

The first thing I did when they left, was empty the basement.