Mary Kelly

I opened my eyes and there were the cold stones of the street again. I wandered aimlessly on the winding alleys of the city I used to own. Jack the Ripper had dissolved in the Eyes of the Soldier and she diminished, she was no more, the city was safe. For a while. He had spit her back out and she was confused – the Eyes of the Soldier were still there. I had lost the fight, I could still feel the freezing cold from the snow, that covered everything, His eyes were still the only thing my battered mind could grasp. But here I was. I leaned my back against the nightcold stones of a wall and slided to the ground. The dark of a newborn night whirled it’s ensuring embrace around me, but I had still never been this confused. I wanted to cry, but there was no reason, so the traitorous tears hid themselves in my drying throat and my eyes stayed unmoistured. His Eyes were still there. They would not leave me, but we will never be one. I have to walk these streets again with the wand of power in my right hand and the Dog, black as the night itself, on my left, and the Eyes of the Soldier – almost army-green in the dark – would follow behind my ruleful posture, watching over me, keeping me from harm, and, in a way, protecting the city from me. I have to become the gracious ruler I once was – strict, firm, but always fair, and He would be my buffer. I could go to Him whenever I need and He would be there. But am I willing to accept this? Am I capable? Is it enough? My face between my knees, the thoughts race through my head as MiG-29s roaring through the air, tearing bleeding holes in the sonic barrier in pursuit of offenders and just one constant scream hammering in my fragile mind – “Is it enough?, Is it enough?, Is it enough…?!?” And then – silence. As the mellow darkness slides over the earth when the sun sets, a serenity lays its soothing cloth over my shoulders and the jets, the tanks, the exploding bombs tearing my thoughts to pieces and the landmines shifting the continents of my convictions disappear. The bloodshed fades, the raging war quiets. And over the new found serenity of my consciousness – calm, friendly, tender and understanding – once again the unblinking Eyes of the Soldier. Jack the Ripper has never been dead. Without thinking, I slip my weary white hand in my pocket and before it reaches the bottom, I feel the cold of the silver against my thigh through the silk lining of my coat. I rise my head. I still have it. I smile.