The Storied Murder of Harlot Jane (Excerpt)

      It was the far east living room in which the company came across a woman whom I have never particularly cared for. She was neither pleasant nor unpleasant; nothing more than the brooding kind of person that sits in silence while others fraternize insincerely with each other. Her aloofness was far from attractive—I am not one to judge a woman by her exterior, but Jane was all but the exception to the rule. Her character was dreadfully indiscernible for me to take it into account in my judgments of her, aesthetics and all, and even as she lay on the rug that would surely have to be replaced due to the disgusting havoc that her body had wreaked on the fabric, my idea of her has not changed. She would not be able to compensate the owner for it, as—well, hell—Jane was dead.
      She was spread haphazardly on the floor, body finding itself in a state even more unattractive than was its usual. Blood had erupted from a wound that ran from under her breast plate, across her abdomen, curling just above the seam of her pants to cross the left half of her waist. I cannot fathom a reason anyone would wear a breast plate, in this day and age.
      Or rather, perhaps one should marvel at why she thought that she were to be in danger at such a tedious affair, and if she feared for her life, what brought her? Masochistic and reckless, she was not.
      No one had been brave enough to shut her eyes, and the large brown saucers that took up a nastily large part of her face were empty. They had once been brown. I suppose that this is what must happen upon death, that the eyes lose their color and fade to black. Nonetheless, it could have been that the lighting in the room distorted many a feature. The blood, however, was vibrant against the soft whiteness beneath her.
      If I were to be honest, I am certain that, regardless of whom it was that took it upon himself to end her life or how feeble his reason was, this woman deserved the end she came to.
      Now, you may find yourself grim about the mouth in rejection of the austerity of my claims, for it is widely believed that no sane person could ever slander a living creature so soon after its decease, but I must say, if Jane abided by no morals in life, then none should be abided by for her in death, either.
      You can rest assured, however, that my narrations, which you are now forced to wholly rely on in order to learn the entirety of the truth, will lack the bias I have toward her. Unsympathetic, perhaps I am. A liar, I have never been.
      Of course, no one would admit to being prone to telling tall tales, but in my case, I assure you that it is true.
      Regardless, you have no choice but to believe me.

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