I.

How glad he is, that he never went into one of those silly creative writing programmes. He's read about them in articles, how they stifle creativity and turn the writer into the scribe, writing over and over the same stories. "Write what you know"—that stuck, though, though he tried so desperately in the beginning to make it leave. Still, deep in the back of his brain in a place where he couldn't scratch out the idea with his fingernails, there was always to linger that thought. How else was one to understand the trials and tribulations of the character, unless one had been through the same experiences?

II.

He's always wanted to write. From the time he was a child, listening to gorgeous fantasy novels as told by his mother. Some were true novels, old CS Lewis, Lord of the Rings. Others were stories of her making, told in quiet liquid tones like something meant for senses other than ears. Anything and everything under the sun.

What lovely words. What a lovely voice.

III.

He is writing his first book, and the lines blur.

His dear friend Alfred's girlfriend is a statuesque blonde taller than Arthur in heels, with skin smooth and pale like milk and hair so white it looks like pale gold under fluorescents. Her eyes are a dark mahogany brown—such a beautiful contrast that he has to keep with the pattern.

What a lovely face, he coos, scalpel in hand. I should save it as a souvenir.

IV.

Arthur Kirkland is the writer of beautiful, widely-acclaimed murder mysteries. His books appear in even the most mundane of department stores, so well known they were. Critics praised them for their realism and readers adored them for their gory detail.

There are countless write-ups on the great author. A thousand Writer's Digest rip-offs begging for "hot new tips from the best and brightest." At first he found himself so overwhelmed—what to say, what to say. So he finally gave the advice he'd taken to heart.

Write what you know, indeed.

V.

What a cliché, to find an old friend's doppelganger in the quietest of slums.

Whitechapel is like an old friend, welcoming him into its figurative bosom, cold and loud and such a set of contrasts, lined nicely alongside one another, a neatly arranged spreadsheet like the neatly arranged work of a killer.

He should know, after all.

VI.

"So are we going to talk today?" The man asks, and his name is Matthew.

Arthur is observant in the way writers should be, and he notes his accent and his kindness and the fact that his hands shake a little, cold pale fingers trembling. His hair looks like it was cut with kitchen shears, and he could be another Alfred.

VII.

He decides early on that Matthew is not to be the subject matter for a book. He's too kind a soul, and too sympathetic a victim.