Archive of Our Own ^beta

TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and still am. And who the hell wouldn’t be when they’ve got an old man snoring like Satan's accordion and an eyeball that looks like it wants to crawl down your throat at midnight? But why will you say I’m mad? Hm? I’m eccentric. Cultured. Flamboyantly homicidal, perhaps. But mad? Pfft. That’s lazy writing.
You see, it was the Eye. That godforsaken orb. Pale as a maggot’s arse and twitching like a debutante at a demon’s cotillion. It wasn't the old man himself — no, I adored his mustache! Magnificent! Like a walrus possessed by Chopin. But that EYE. That pale, vulture-squinting monstrosity. It saw things. I felt it watching me. Judging. It whispered unflattering things about my cravat.
So I did what any reasonable Victorian gentleman with an overdeveloped flair for dramatics would do.
I murdered the bastard.
Now, don’t judge. I did it artistically. Precision! Panache! I waited — oh, how I waited — seven nights! Like a suitor before prom night. Every evening I crept into his chamber, slow as guilt and quiet as a cockroach in a corset, lantern masked, breathing through my teeth. And each time, the eye stayed closed. Coward.
But on the eighth night—oh ho! That damnable eye cracked open like a boiled egg, staring, staring, STARRRRING—
So I lunged like a theatre kid on espresso.
And I did the deed.
Oh, don’t wince. It wasn’t messy. Well. A bit messy. There was some arterial jazz. But I dismembered him tastefully. Tucked the limbs beneath the floorboards with the delicacy of a mortician with OCD.
It was perfect.
Until.
Those f**king bobbies knocked at the door. Three of them. Dull eyes. Big hats. Suspicious shoes. They’d heard a scream. (Pfft. Drama queen.) I welcomed them in with a grin and the grace of a butler on laudanum. Showed them all around — even served tea, pinky out, bodies down.
They bought it.
Oh, but then... THUMP.
Faint at first. Then louder. Louder. LOUDER.
The damn heart. The cursed, traitorous, jazz-beating bastard of a heart. It pulsed beneath the floor like a percussionist with a grudge. I smiled. I nodded. I complimented the sergeant’s mustache.
THUMP.
I laughed. I lied. I farted once, quietly. They didn’t notice.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Was it guilt? Madness? Indigestion?
No. It was the sound of my art screaming to be acknowledged. It was performance anxiety — and I had no encore.
“OKAY!” I howled, collapsing like a goth at a poetry reading. “YES! I MURDERED THE OLD TWIT! It was the damn eye! The pale, screeching, sanctimonious EYE!”
I ripped up the floorboards with the passion of a Victorian soap opera. Blood, bits, bones — the whole buffet.
The cops clapped. Said it was the most honest thing they'd seen all week. One of them asked for a business card.