@horrauer / hey bitch wassup
sometimes it’s a little too easy to get lost in a character and lose sight of who she truly is, grell finds, but she supposes that’s just the mark of a good actress. this butler couldn’t be more of a polar opposite to her true self ------------- she often finds herself consumed in his intricacies. who is this pathetic, anxious little man who would break down over spilled milk ? what motivates him, what makes him tick ? she feels like she needs to give him a life of his own if she wants him to be convincing. perhaps she’s trying too hard.
it is always the spilling of blood that brings her back to reality. never before has she felt more illicit relief than when her she digs her knife into her victims’ throats and TUGS. it is the ending of life that christens her anew : the leather apron. the whitechapel murderer. darling angelina had found the names amusing. it brought grell the realisation that she wishes she had given the butler a name. it doesn’t feel right anymore to have him remain nameless, or to let him use the name she has chosen for herself. because she is not him, and he is not her, and for the sake of her insecurities that she may be pouring too much of herself into him, she should very much like to keep it that way.
perhaps, if she had put much thought into his existence at the time of his creation, she might have named him jack.
SEPTEMBER 30TH, 1888. there’s something dreadfully romantic about the way eddowes’ body lies slumped on the ground. angelina decides to take her kidney along with the womb, and grell does not question her when she sees her put the organ in a little jar. they both have their reasons for doing what they’re doing and grell doesn’t really see much point in discussing them in too much detail. no, that might be considered crude, and she has no time for such vulgarity in front of madam red, such a beautiful woman. ( a beautiful woman, a beautiful death . . . grell is in her element here. )
most of grell’s work is done with a pretty little pocket knife that she’d bought at a marketplace in hackney, cutting and slicing at the corpse’s face with reckless abandon ------------- but the main attraction is the cinematic record ; body punctured with the reaper’s shiny new death scythe. it doesn’t leave a mark, and the record is boring, and overall there’s much less blood involved than grell might have liked, but the kill is satisfying. it’s quick, but it brings her clarity.
the body is found almost immediately after the two leave the scene, she can tell, but they don’t rush themselves in getting back to the phantomhive townhouse. grell can see by the look in red’s eyes that she finds the whole thing exhilarating -------------- her pupils are blown wide with excitement ; the rush of adrenaline. they laugh it off, and part ways as they enter the building. they can’t be seen together.
she lets her mind wander somewhat as she changes her clothes, but her thoughts keep returning to the butler. he’s an interesting fellow : he’s good at his job, but not when people are watching him. if the poor thing could live in a world where people weren’t breathing down his neck, maybe he’d be less anxious. the beginnings of a smirk tug at grell’s lips as she thinks of him.
not everyone has been cruel to him, though. there’s one man that’s piqued grell’s interest : mister gluskin, the tailor. nobody has asked it of him, but he is the only person who has been tolerant of the butler, understanding, even ! she thinks that’s the most interesting thing of all. most are sick of him by now, especially michaelis and his master. even angelina seems to grow weary of him. but, it would seem, not gluskin.
it’s late at night, but she just can’t stop thinking of him. there’s nothing particularly special about him, after all he’s just some human tailor, but she has to wonder about his kindness. and it’s her wondering that makes her wander, dread and anxiety pooling in her gut as she assumes the guise of the poor, unfortunate butler once more.
❝ mister gluskin ? ❞ her voice is quiet as she knocks on his door. perhaps he is asleep, but she is determined to get an answer from him. as an immortal creature who has lived for such a long time, it’s not often that she sees a human that surprises her. red was the first. maybe gluskin will be the second. her voice shakes as she tries again, and she realises she’s trembling. ❝ e - excuse me, mister gluskin ? i’m dreadfully sorry to disturb you, i know it’s late . . . ❞
yes, she’d like to see if his kindness and patience extends to being woken by an anxious wreck at half past two in the morning.
