literature

DOPPLEGANGER

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They say he was a tall man, rather pale, with sallow, high cheeks, between which was stretched a cruel and sinister smile, a sneer, a smirk of pale rose, thin, pastel lips. A graceful bowler hat was draped at a curious angle atop his casually elegant brown hair, near shoulder-length, yet not untidy. This covered his left eye and kept his right in shadow. He was long-legged – long-armed, too. His skinny fingers were hidden by crisp white gloves, meticulously pleated and buttoned, his feet, by burnished black leather shoes, laced neatly to the tongue. He donned a clean-cut tuxedo suit, but no bowtie, his neat cummerbund fastened around his middle, a silver buckled belt just below it. He carried with him a matching black and silver cane, and, weather depending, a black silk umbrella, tucked neatly beneath his arm. He was the gentlemanly villain.
They say he remained elusive throughout his life, and though many claimed to have known him, they seemed to be all talk. For never would they mention the ruthlessness of his killings with the proper apprehension, how dainty he was in his ways, how he seemed to melt in and out of the shadows as if they were more than his medium, the care he showed "real ladies". He was a swift, silent actor, an artist rather than a criminal, for he showed beauty in mischief, splendor in disobedience for the law, and made sins out to be the paramour of performance.
They say he was often searched for, but never found. It seemed he would taunt authorities, occasionally leaving a bleached silk glove upon café tables, a dainty rose and a note on a park bench. He was extravagant, dramatic – romantic, even, but never frivolous or showy. He was determined to be reserved in his manner, and lived by this doctrine. His crimes were never fully traced, but often brought about his name. Police never had any proof, but the reactions of the public never varied. A family of four, found stabbed through the chest, dressed in their best clothes, arranged in the parlor, tea set on the table. He seemed to note every tiny detail – the father preferred his toast with margarine, the youngest daughter would have warm milk while the mother would have a cup of chamomile tea, two lumps of sugar, no milk, precisely at 8:30 am. When the family was found, everything was arranged just so, the maid propped up in the doorway, blood from her fatal wound still dripping sickeningly to the floor beneath her, absorbing briskly into her crisp serving dress, clutching her mistress' tea in her right hand, the saucer supported with the left. The tall grandfather clock had stopped working. 8:30 in the morning. Perfectly punctual.
They say he killed without thought, without reason, but you must not always listen to what "they" say. He killed only those who he felt would prefer death to the lives they lead, and somehow, it connected in his crookedly-healed heart. He had been six. Mother. He must hold himself high. He must be a gentleman. Her smile. Be polite, be a gentleman. Yes mother. Her sad, last smile.
They say he felt no remorse, and reader, I think it is safe to say "they" might have a point, this time. His hurt soul had been mended with a clumsy needle by a blind tailor. But life had been cruel. Remorse began to creep into his mind, seep into his heart, bleed into his soul. It seized him and demanded he reform. Phantom victims of his past called to him, and demanded the respect they were due. He was haunted by his mistakes, his pleasure, his foolish errors, his private joys. He presented himself to society as the gentleman he appeared to be. His soul begged for him to make up for those years, those years that had been his pride, his joy. The guilt scolded him for the pain and sorrow he had caused others and ate away at him while it showed the villain's soulless shell to the world. He longed for the right to be free, to get rid of the petulance, the plague that had been cast upon him.
They say he longed for relief. The repentance seemed to deprive him of his spirit, and he no longer saw joy. While on the outside, crisp bleached gloves clapped politely and black polished shoes squeaked as they walked from the café to the park, on the inside, his soul deteriorated, swallowed up by the guilt from the ages during which he had thrived. He begged for release, and his reformed conscience denied him freedom, and kept him locked within himself.
They say he killed just once more after his atonement, yet it was not the same villain who had murdered countless others. Overcome by his regret, he withered to dust until only the exoskeleton remained to hide the horrors of his past. Never again was he found, and never was there an effort to find him.
They say he was no one's villain but his own.
But that's just what they say.
Another English assignment. It was written very late at night, so excuse the corny-ness and cliche.

[c]~DEFYxxNORMALITY 2009
© 2009 - 2024 DEFYxxNORMALITY
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KeyboardSamurai's avatar
This has a very nice case of unreliable narrator. Sweet.