The String of Pearls

Recommended music: Basil Paint from Dorian Gray ost

𝟏. 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐡.

As you walk underneath the low-hung grey clouds of London, you can feel the thick air of soot and smog, heavy and suffocating.

The cobblestone ground crunches underneath your feet against the pebbles mixed with piss.

You can feel the soot coating and mixing with your sweat, clogging your pores like tar.

And you know it’s going to take a painful scrubbing to get them off.

You see the beggars slumped down against the brick wall, and prostitutes lurking around the corners with a nervous glint in their eyes.

It is the pit of the roaches, the nest of vermins:

The City of Coal.

𝟐. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥.

The black smoke rises from its brick chimney.

What is first recognisable as the salivating smell of juicy pork is quickly tinged with a hint of copper. 

The metallic smell of burning blood.

They burn in Inferno.

𝟑. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐬.

The place is packed, as always. Men with reddened faces fumble their way around the crowd, balancing on a single plate mountain of the famous Ms. Black’s Meat Pie.

It’s about time you gave it a try. 

You sit at an open spot on the counter and order a pie.

“Incredible as always, Walburga!” The man beside you hollers to Ms. Black, who must be a regular. “I’ve never tasted something so juicy.”

“Quite so,” another spectacled woman next to him chimes in. “You simply must teach me the recipe, dear.”

Ms. Black tuts while pouring another round. “It’s a family secret recipe. One I promised I’d take to my grave.”

But Ms. Black looked up, shot a mischievous wink at the lady, and whispered. “But I will tell you this; it’s all in the meat. How you prepare it.”

The older woman gleefully nodded.

“That is quite the pearl you’ve got there, Walburga,” the man decided to shift the conversation.

Ms. Black’s face lit up like a star. “So you’ve noticed, Alphard.” Her fingers fumbled with the pearl necklace adorning her pale, slender neck. Quite an expensive taste for a humble shop owner. 

“I’m renting a room to an old friend of mine, Mr. Riddle. ‘Tis from him.”

Alphard, the man’s name was, hollered excitedly, the grin on his red face widening at the sound of a gossip. “An admirer, is it?”

Ms. Black blushed and started drying the dishes. There was a hint of forlorn melancholia at the corners of her lips. “I wish, Alphard. I wish.”

“Mr. Riddle is dedicated to his… craft,” Ms. Black sighed.

The excitement seemed to diminish from Mr. Alphard’s eyes seeing his friend’s longing. “What is it that he does?”

Her thoughts seemed to drift away as she fumbled with her pearls again. “An artist. A great one at that too.” Her eyes darkened for a flash of a second before a smile returned to replace it, not a care in the world. “Sometimes, I just picture him whisking me away from this old dirty place. A beach, maybe.”

𝟒. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐏𝐢𝐞

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞.

The famous pie is indeed, nothing like you’ve ever tasted. Juicy. Soft. Marvellous.

You take a quick succession of bites. You simply cannot get enough.

But something stops your chewing. This one is quite chewy.

You furrow your brows at the sudden change of texture. Perhaps it’s cartilage.

No matter. Your mother always told you cartilage is rich in nutrients.

But this one is quite large to swallow.

You put down your pie on the plate. The fingers reach to your lips to take out the cartilage.

Your heart drops.

Held in between your fingers, covered in your saliva and ground meat, is unbelievably, yet undeniably, a single ear.

You blink a few times at the surreal sight in front of you.

It is small. Bits and pieces taken off. Dented in the shape of your teeth.

Out of shock, some morbid curiosity or god knows what, you swallow the last bit of bite you had left in your mouth.

And then you taste it. The hint of copper. The hint of burned blood.

Your trembling fingers drop the ear onto the plate.

Your eyes travel across the shop to all sorts of humans eating the pie. Old women. Gentlemen. Children. Dogs. All stuffing their mouth with the tender, scrumptious Ms. Black’s famous meat pie. A lady licking her fingers clean. Another child sloppily eating the pie from his hands, his saliva and remnants of the meat falling from the corner of his mouth.

As the realisation sinks in, you start to feel nauseous.

Your glance lands back on the plate. Or, lack thereof. In the moment of reeling from shock, someone had cleaned up your plate.

Perhaps you were imagining things. How much simpler that would be. How relieved you would be.

But no, what came out of your mouth was, undoubtedly, unequivocally, a human ear.

Your glance rises to land on Ms. Black. She is looking at you inquisitively with a heavy jug of jin nestled at her hip. 

Does she know?

She must know.

“Another round for you as well?”

She asks with an innocent smile.

𝟓. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐲

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞.

That was what the walk up the stairs was.

It is eerily quiet.

The stairs creak underneath you with each step.

Your hand on the door handle trembles.

You’re afraid to know what awaits you inside Mr. Tom Riddle’s atelier on the second floor.

But curiosity gets the better of you.

You’re hit with a stench of humid, unfiltered air of London’s summer night. The air is thick with the smell of copper that has been boiling in the attic of Ms. Black’s shop.

You cover your nose and mouth.

Your eyes search the room.

The room is humble. A mirror. A large window overlooking the street. A single chair in the centre of the room.

You strain your eyes in the dark and approach the chair. Your eyes are starting to adjust.

The dark wooden floorboard covers it well. But there is certainly a ring of stain around the chair.

You follow the trail of the stain, until your eyes land on the darkened corner of the room.

A man lays face down. Flies were beginning to gather around the gash on his neck. The damp air had deteriorated the festering body quite badly already. He looked quite youthful. His obsidian, perfectly combed hair reflected the moon. His skin was the iridescent mother of pearl, droplets of rubies splattered against it.

It was a ghastly work of art.

You find Ms. Black as well, lying motionless, not too far from the man. Her once lively eyes glazed over as they reflect the moonlight streaming from the window. Her lips parted open in shock. Her beautiful neck sliced open.

The pearls glinted in the silver light as it dripped reds on the floor.

Poor, young, naive Ms. Black.

“Need a shave?”

You jump and whip around to find a man standing by the door.

You do a double-take. The man is an alive corpse.

He is the spitting image of the dead man. Yet, somehow, alive. With bags and haggard cheeks, he looked more dead than the deceased.

“What can I do you for on such a sweet night?”

Mr. Riddle, you assumed, had a much deeper, velvety voice than what you anticipated from his appearance.

Mr. Riddle took a few languid steps toward you, but all you could do was stand frozen.

You understood then, that you were not going to last till dawn.

His captivating eyes glossed over you, taking you in. His lips twisted as if he just found new prey. He murmured, circling around you, “A haircut? Some cologne?”

You held your breath at sensing Mr. Riddle stopping right behind you. The smell of his cologne, FOUGÈRE, wafted around you. His hot breath breezed down on your neck, which currently seemed too exposed for your liking. His lips grazed your left ear as he softly spoke.

“Or perhaps, a shave?”

You let out a shuddered breath as Mr. Riddle stepped away.

“Please,” Mr. Riddle patted the chair that stood in front of the mirror. Your eyes drifted to the stain, which you now understood to be the blood of his victims, concentrated around the chair.

“Do sit,” Mr. Riddle insisted. There was something about his voice that shook your core. Something that impelled the depths of your existence to plead for salvation.

With shaking and slow steps, you sit on the chair.

In the mirror, Mr. Riddle seemed content.

But soon, he disappeared behind the chair.

You desperately wanted to see where he was, but simultaneously did not want to know what he was doing to the bodies. Your head seemed to be glued to the back of the chair.

You thought you heard rustling and squelching.

You waited.

Mr. Riddle returned again and wrapped his hands around the chair. Your eyes remained glued to the mirror as Mr. Riddle’s head positioned itself next to yours.

“Do you see the beauty in the mirror?” Mr. Riddle whispered excitedly as his eyes focused on you in the mirror with gruesome fascination. “A perfect canvas.”

You couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Riddle may as well be referring to himself. He was unbelievably beautiful. The curve of his lips, his long lashes, and his chiselled cheek and jaw were enough to make one believe in the existence of a higher being. To finally have a glimpse into the mysteries and the truths of nature. 

He was an angel that presented revelation to mortals before death.

If Mr. Riddle were a sculptor of death, the god that created him was also a master of art.

Mr. Riddle rounded the chair until he sat leaning against the bureau, effectively now standing in the silver moonlight. A sense of dread pooled in the pit of your stomach as you noticed something you couldn’t observe before in the dark: his white shirt drenched in dark red stains. His hands were dripping fresh red blood onto the floor. The spots of red splattered against his hollow cheeks.

“Oh, this?” Mr. Riddle chuckled, and seemed to notice your lingering stare on his bloodied hands. “You understand, the process of creation can be… messy.”

Mr. Riddle’s trembling fingers raised themselves. To your horror, he cupped his own cheeks and trailed his slender fingers down his lips, neck, and to his exposed chest visible through his unbuttoned shirt, drawing long streaks of Ms. Black’s blood in some form of a wicked ritual of desecration. His eyes fluttered shut in pure ecstasy.

“I consider the process a performative art as well,” Mr. Riddle breathed out. “There is something alluring about becoming one with your art.”

Your eyes drift to his lips now stained with the dark, dangerous tint, dripping red. His eyes flung open again, piercing through you. His eyes were completely empty as he drew out his index finger and suggestively ran it across his bottom lip. From between his slightly parted lips, it was barely visible, but you were certain his tongue grazed the blood off of his finger.

Heat seemed to have erupted on your cheeks at Mr. Riddle’s sultry conduct.

The crazed man put on a devilish smirk and tilted his head. His teeth stained red. Silently, you stared up at him, wishing he would just tell you when he was going to do it. However, Mr. Riddle seemed to enjoy the fear etched in your eyes too much for that. The silence that grew between you two was disconcerting as Mr. Riddle continued to study you.

“Do you know why they call me a true artist?”

You gulped, unable to speak.

Mr. Riddle took that as an answer. He leaned forward, placing his hand on the arm of the chair. His eyes bore into yours. What scared you was that, despite the beauty, the myriads of lively expressions, there was nothing in his eyes.

Just emptiness.

“I am able to make anyone into what they desire to be: Divine. Dashing. Elegant.” He hesitantly raised his hand, until his fingers gently grazed on your lips. You tasted that wretched taste of copper again.

He bit his lips, “However little help the subject may need.” His eyes lingered on your lips for a brief moment.

You gasped when he spun your chair. Mr. Riddle cackled, his crazed voice echoing in the empty attic. “You want someone to adore you? I can do that. Perhaps an air of professionalism for the next promotion? You’ve come to the right place.”

“Dead?” the two poor bodies of Ms. Black and the man drifted to the left and out of your vision again. 

Mr. Riddle winked at you, “Already done.”

Something roused inside you at his cruel joke. Thinking back to how Ms. Black talked about her hopes and dreams, and now her body devoid of any life, a sense of helplessness overwhelmed you.

“Didn’t you find my masterpiece beautiful?” You follow Mr. Riddle’s gaze to more subtle dots of blood splattered against the ceiling and walls. “The pattern changes based on my choice of tool, which blood vessel I choose to rupture.”

“Why did you kill her?” your voice dripped in venom, courage hidden deep within you, to your surprise.

Mr. Riddle dropped his grin, but merely raised his brows in amusement. “So you can talk?”

“Just a difference in opinions over the direction of our businesses,” he waved away, already bored of the current topic. “It was already going on for far too long.”

“My poor excuse of a father was supposed to be my last,” he cocked his chin at the body still presumably lying face down behind you. “That old bastard had it coming.”

“But,” his eyes lit up as his eyes travelled back to you and you felt the chill run down your spine. “I suppose you could be my one true last masterpiece.”

He held your cheeks and inspected your face thoroughly, “But something is amiss…” he hummed and furrowed his brows, putting on a charade of deep thought as he tapped his fingers against his lips.

Mr. Riddle must have decided what was missing, as he stepped behind you once again, and produced the pearl necklace. Gently, he clasped it around you.

“Hauntingly beautiful…” his hot breath on your ears, Mr. Riddle’s hand clasped your neck, forcing you to tilt your head. Despite his slender fingers, his possessive grip on your throat was quite strong.

Your lips parted as you spotted yourself in the mirror, completely transformed. The stress of the past hour had changed your eyes to that of a paranoid mouse. Your eyes darted back and forth, tinged with red from crying unaware. Exhaustion was evident in the bags underneath your eyes. 

Mr. Riddle’s fingers had left the blood of Ms. Black stained across your lips and your cheeks. And at that moment, her reddened pearls were dripping rubies down your chest.

“And now for a shave.”

Your eyes widened as you spotted in the mirror Mr. Riddle producing a beautifully engraved silver shaving knife.

“Look at me.”

His voice was cold. You fearfully raised your eyes up to him, knowing that this was it. You gulped and felt his grip around your throat tighten.

Tom Riddle’s eyes bore into yours. He was breathing deeply, his pupils dilated. He was preparing himself for the moment. Wanting to enjoy the very last creation of his masterpiece until the last second.

It was a strangely intimate moment. There was nothing left in the world except you and the angelic face of Tom Riddle.

The blade was ice cold against the pulsing soft flesh of your neck.

And at the last second of your life, as splatters of your own blood paint Tom Riddle’s pale skin, you wonder why it was that you swallowed that last bite.