Flora Wilkes evidently had had enough.
From what the witnesses told us, Flora came down the stairs at the Cross Theater, flush with the success of another fine performance. She was a fine singer, and she played the piano beautifully.
She was not, however, overly fond of gentlemen callers.
When she reached the lobby, she made that point quite clear.
From behind her back, she drew a small revolver and killed the first four men she shot. Her pistol misfired on the last two rounds, and she cast the weapon aside with a shrug. As a few of the survivors ran, several more advanced upon her, looking to seize her and take her into custody for the police.
It was a poor decision on their part.
There was, according to one man, a flash of metal, and then screams.
Apparently, Flora had tucked a pair of straight razors into the sleeves of her dress. Those hands which played the piano so deftly wielded the razors with the skill of a concert musician.
The men who had died from the revolvers were the lucky ones.
By the time the police arrived, Flora was walking out of the theater. Her hands were down at her sides, and she was covered in a fine mist of blood.
She was still alive when the Boston to Cross train pulled into the station, and I disembarked. I heard her singing in her native German, and the song was one of war and death. There was a rattle of uncoordinated gunfire, and her song stopped.
When I reached the theater, I found the police were standing around her, though they were giving the dying woman a wide berth. She still had the razors in her hands, and there was a bitter smile on her face. I stepped closer to her, and her fingers fluttered.
Disregarding the wet gleam of the blades, I knelt down and asked her, “Why?”
She let out a wheezing gasp and whispered, “Why not?”
And to that, there is no response.
#horror #fear #art