Emily Elizabeth, listen to me. We can barely make ends meet; you know our financial situation. What if you... I mean, you look good, and you don't have to do much to please a man. You just say your name is Phyllis. Phyllis, free of syphilis...
Listen, love, I mean, do you love us? Imagine... It will only take a week or two, and we'll be worry-free. Free to go wherever you want with me. We can close this bad episode in our lives; there's life outside of London. We both know we deserve a better life; we met for a reason. Don't you see it, don't you believe it? I promise I'll keep you safe, no weirdos. Jack the Ripper is a thing of the past. Believe me, this is the best and fastest way out of here. It's like Sickert says: love can make you rich.

Emily can't believe her ears. The rules of good and evil seem to apply only to her. She watches the man she thought was truly his muse and the light of his life gulp down the next jug of wine.

Was there much choice? Not really. Even without him, she'd want to leave, and if she did, at least she'd have her own money, be able to save, and start over somewhere else. In Paris or Amsterdam, or who knows, maybe just disappear off the face of the earth on a sunny May morning.

There's a brief knock on the door. She doesn't say "come in," because she knows who it's from. Her lover. Not a customer; she's never done that, though he thinks he has. Gossip spreads quickly, and a fire is easily stoked.

"Where were you?" Walter says. His voice seems to have changed. "I wanted to finish the painting last night. You know, that series of four to make it clear to the rich that poverty does exist."

Without answering, she lies down naked on the bed. He's already done most of it, anyway. She doesn't like his way of painting, but she could use some peace and quiet. Closing her eyes, she listens to the brush on the canvas. She can smell him, but decides to keep her eyes closed. If he's not happy, he'll tell her. Where would she go?

She feels something cold sliding down her neck. Warm drops on her shoulders turn into a warm stream.

Pretty nice, she thinks. If only it could always be like this. I think I'll take a nap.

Disappointed, he sits down at the foot of the bed. She hasn't moved a muscle, as if the fact that he slit her throat didn't bother her. They used to call him the Ripper, Jack the Ripper. Today, he was just the painter Sickert. With a sigh, he got up and gathered his things. Her boyfriend would be here soon enough. It was time he found someone else to save humanity from depravity. She was too easily seduced.

^{21.12.25
Painter: Walter Richard Sickert
Painting: The Camden Town Murder (1908) – public domain
The contest Art and Writing is hosted by @solperez}