She had been fifteen when they took her from London and carried her off to the New World. Perhaps carried would not be the best choice of words, nor would kicking and screaming. Siran had been nothing more than an outcasted child dismissed from the sanctuary of the convent where she once had been protected as an orphan. Her nightmares they said were the beckoning of the devil. An invitation for ill deeds to come and even the most constant of prayers for retribution and repentance would not cure her of her? illness.
It had not been the choice of the convent to dismiss her, instead a ten year old Siran had found herself leaving in the darkest hour of night, darting off into the thick of London?s fog if only to disappear. If she was a devil?s pawn she had no will to bring that upon the nuns that had done nothing more then be kind to her.
Years had passed with her becoming familiar with the streets, with the nature of survival. She learned well then that innocence in age would never prolong or have longevity when it came to a life forged on a path of dirty cobblestones and thick fog. London was a cold and unforgiving place when it came to the era where mother?s whispered to their daughters of ill begotten ways being what led the Ripper to take them in the night.
Stay off the streets come the chime of the watchtower clock at nine. In the shadows on those very streets warned of where Whitechapel was not so much a distant memory as a bloody reminder she watched mothers grip the hands of their daughters to hurry away from the night. It almost seemed that even they feared that the shadows had teeth and the gutter rats had claws that would cut and kill.
On those streets she did not find a Ripper, perhaps it was for her skin being too fresh, too young? too perhaps pure for his favoritism but she found killers of another kind.
Reckless, free creatures that took what they wanted from the world and howled at the moon when their eyes glistened with the stain of insanity or a taint of opium dreams.
Those names she would not speak of, those that took her in she knew only by nicknames. They had called her the Lil Lovely. She they knew would fetch a pretty penny and their freedom from the streets and the lives they learned to loathe.
Their hatred was a violent, uncontrolled beast prowling in the night and taking with tooth and claw anything they wanted? they took her.
No longer would they be the sheep awaiting the slaughter and the defined promise of Death. In Whitechapel it was not a question of death coming, it was a question of just how much longer you had to live.
As time passed Siran began to learn the fear after the clock struck 9 and it became feeding time. In those streets the group that took her in were no longer lambs but becoming something far more feral?they began to hunt like wolves in the night
It had not been the choice of the convent to dismiss her, instead a ten year old Siran had found herself leaving in the darkest hour of night, darting off into the thick of London?s fog if only to disappear. If she was a devil?s pawn she had no will to bring that upon the nuns that had done nothing more then be kind to her.
Years had passed with her becoming familiar with the streets, with the nature of survival. She learned well then that innocence in age would never prolong or have longevity when it came to a life forged on a path of dirty cobblestones and thick fog. London was a cold and unforgiving place when it came to the era where mother?s whispered to their daughters of ill begotten ways being what led the Ripper to take them in the night.
Stay off the streets come the chime of the watchtower clock at nine. In the shadows on those very streets warned of where Whitechapel was not so much a distant memory as a bloody reminder she watched mothers grip the hands of their daughters to hurry away from the night. It almost seemed that even they feared that the shadows had teeth and the gutter rats had claws that would cut and kill.
On those streets she did not find a Ripper, perhaps it was for her skin being too fresh, too young? too perhaps pure for his favoritism but she found killers of another kind.
Reckless, free creatures that took what they wanted from the world and howled at the moon when their eyes glistened with the stain of insanity or a taint of opium dreams.
Those names she would not speak of, those that took her in she knew only by nicknames. They had called her the Lil Lovely. She they knew would fetch a pretty penny and their freedom from the streets and the lives they learned to loathe.
Their hatred was a violent, uncontrolled beast prowling in the night and taking with tooth and claw anything they wanted? they took her.
No longer would they be the sheep awaiting the slaughter and the defined promise of Death. In Whitechapel it was not a question of death coming, it was a question of just how much longer you had to live.
As time passed Siran began to learn the fear after the clock struck 9 and it became feeding time. In those streets the group that took her in were no longer lambs but becoming something far more feral?they began to hunt like wolves in the night