Ripped From Shadows

Wednesday 8 June 2011

This is a confession of sorts. My confession. My account, as best I can remember.

From the shadows, I watched the whores solicit their gentlemen, although I deign to call them that. Far from gentlemen all of them were. No gentleman would be caught with his pants down over this side of the city, and certainly not with these whores.

I watched them all, five in total, go after their prize. Money. That’s all they ever did it for. That’s all anyone lives for now. Without it, you’re nothing. Trouble is it’s so hard to come by an honest living on the streets. If you haven’t a roof over your head, you’ve no chance to be respectable. And even if you do have lodgings, chances are you’re still nowhere near the respectable people. But, I did my best to make sure these bitches are remembered. And I’ll be remembered, even if no one knows my face or my name.

From the shadows, I surveyed every one of them, remaining invisible as they walked by with their men. They all passed me. They all smiled. They all thought I’d be their next. They didn’t count on being my next. I think some of them remembered me, and so they should. Had they been clean, they’d never have been in that position; I’d never have had to come back for them. Had no idea which one gave it to me, so I took them all.

One by one, I went back to the place I’d first paid for their . . . services. But instead of going alone, as I did the first time ‘round, I took a friend. The only one who’d ever been faithful when others had forsaken me. Her steel blade sharpened, shone in the lamplight comforting me, impressing upon me that I was going to do the right thing.

Stepping out into the light for just a moment, I tempted them with the promise of money. They all followed me, willingly, back into the shadows without a second thought or care for their own lives. And in the shadows, I took each one of them for the last time; my blade piercing their skin, and their flesh, and my hand covering their mouths, stifling their cries and screams of agony.

Their blood on my hands, like my blade, shone in the moonlight, not crimson, as I’d expected, but brown like the water of the Thames. Ha-ha, funny that their blood was flowing from them, their lives extinguished at my hands, and the lifeblood of my city, the Thames, would extinguish my life just as easily as I’d done theirs.

I took parts of a few, not as souvenirs like some thought, but to ensure my notoriety. I never ate them like the letters said. I’m not depraved, just vengeful. And now, I’m infamous as well. But it begins to bother me that it’s the whores who are getting the attention. They’ve done nothing of note, not like me. Still, after five, it’s time to stop. I only ever wanted to teach them a lesson. One of them gave it to me.

My mind will descend into madness soon. This sickness, that’s what it does, addles the brain. There is no cure that I know of. And so, I took their lives because they’ve taken mine. Only difference is I’ve been more respectful, taking them faster than this will take me. But for years to come, everyone will know who I am, in a manner of speaking. I’ve made my mark.

Respectfully yours,

Jack the Ripper.


About Danielle

I like to write. What more is there to know?
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