Darker than Black

Jack the Ripper, infamous for being England's most notorious serial killer. Never found, never caught. Who is he? Why does he kill?

Inky starless skies. Blackened soulless streets. Shattered, broken lamp posts. The agonized screams of dying peasants. This was the true face of London. The pampered well-bred men and women, who sauntered the streets wearing huge grins, was all but a sham. For London, you see, mastered in the art of deceit. It was as if the mass population of London were forever dancing in an endless masquerade. It was like the citizens were always trying to mask the truth, only to live a lie they, oh so created. “London” was merely a façade; a feign of existence that devoured any truth from ever escaping the clutches of their shrouded city.

As my boots thud against the cold cobblestone in the Whitechapel district, a hunched figure suddenly captures my attention. Upon closer inspection, the ‘figure’ was the image of death itself. For the figure was a women who had been bashed to bits.  Just another victim ignored in the cover of night. Her hair had been ripped out from its very roots. Her clothes had been torn to shreds, while her face was almost beyond recognition. ‘How utterly revolting’, I mentally sneered. This was not a woman like any other, she was the lowest of lows, she was scum on earth; she was a prostitute.  The knowledge of her metier left a disgusting after taste. It was like I was on the verge of spewing my insides out. Then, as if matters could not get any worse, the women had the audacity to latch her filthy fingers around my ankle. I quickly resisted the urge to send her straight to hell, where people like her truly belonged. Suddenly I heard the raspy voice of a tortured woman, ‘Please’, she begged, crawling closer and closer to my noticeably stiff body. But all begging’s and pleadings would fall on deaf ears.  However, if help is what she so desires, then help is what she would most definitely receive. I was the most notorious murderer in London for a very good reason, and I would live up to my deemed title.

That very night, the bloodcurdling screams of a tormented soul was resounded throughout the walls of London. Her screams would later fade away into the still silence, just like rain would wash the sins of yesterday, granting a new today.

It was another chilling evening. However, unlike most nights, tonight was snowing. The streets of London were buried in a blanket of white, as if being purified of its deeds. Today, I decided to remain indoors, rather than venturing on my daily “escapades”.  There are many things I greatly disliked, and one of those is my immense hatred for riches. For this reason, I live in a small sized room that has just enough space to retain my many ‘antics’ I so love to keep. As I make my way to the kitchen basin, my foot stumbles over a lifeless corpse. Ahh…my beautiful, beautiful corpse collection. This was my prized possession. Well, one of many really. A howl of wind from outside knocked a familiar picture frame from its former position. The shattered glass was an exact reflection of my broken soul. Peering at my distorted image, painful unwanted memories invaded my mind, trying to push through the surface. I pick up the half ruined frame and gazed at what was situated in the photo. A family; my family. ‘Not anymore’. I thought bitterly. I tightly clutched the frame until the remaining glass shattered even further, cutting deeply into my palm as bright rubies poured out from my wound. I lost everything; my parents, my life and…my sanity.

Flashback

 “Father…?” I started but was cut off when my father picked up a suit case that had been sitting beside his leg, and stormed out the front door. My mother rushed after him, trying to reason with him but it was apparent that whatever he had in mind, he would never change it. I followed suit however, froze when my eyes landed on the carriage waiting in front of our house. However, that wasn’t what held my gaze. A young and stunning woman stood near the carriage door, holding it open. ’A…prostitute?’ I mentally whispered with disbelief. My mother followed my gaze and her tearful eyes transformed into one of pure wrath. “You’re leaving us to marry this…this…wench!?” My mother finally snapped and she charged towards the young woman as her hand rose above her head. SLAP. I realized I had tightly shut my eyes and slowly opened them. The young woman still stood by the carriage, uninjured and untouched. Instead, it was my mother who had been slapped, by her husband. “Do not touch her!” He boiled in fury. “You knew this was bound to happen, Lydia! Besides, how can I spend the remains of my life with a woman who cannot bear any more children!? Who cannot bear my children!?” He threw his arms up in the air as his eyes slid over to me for a brief moment. What did he mean by that? By now, I was more confused than ever. “Goodbye, Lydia.” Without another word, he beckoned the young woman into the carriage and followed after her, leaving my mother sobbing on the muddy ground and his ‘son’ standing there with unanswered questions. Shortly after this incident, mother was never the same.

For years, I endured the pain; for years I kept the demonic rage at bay. For what felt like decades, I watched my mother warm the beds of other men, neglecting the only child she raised. However, tonight, I would hold back no more. Tonight, I would finally give my soul the peace it so deserved.

I stood in front of a door to one of the rooms in the Brothel, shivers of excitement running up and down my spine. Knocking three times, I entered the room to be confronted by a stunning woman laid on the bed, clothed in only her undergarments. “Are you new? I have never seen you before.” She spoke innocently. I smirked wickedly at her stupidity. She stood up and beckoned me towards the bed. I started chuckling at her idiocy and soon, a hysterical laugh escaped my lips. “Mary Jane Kelly.” I took a few menacing steps forward. Her eyes widened slightly. “How do you…?” She shakily stumbled backwards, her face contorted in fear as my body radiated hostility. “Help-!” I swung my arm outwards and stuck her face, sending her flying towards the bed. She desperately struggled under my weight as I straddled her small figure. Roughly covering her mouth, I reached for my knife from inside my cloak and plunged it deeply into her right palm, pinning it into the headboard.

Crimson rubies dripped from her wound and I chuckled in delight. “Such a beautiful expression.” I whispered into her ear as she cried out in agony. Ripping a piece of cloth from the bed sheets, I tightly fastened it around her bruised mouth. Pulling out the knife, I slowly trailed the end of the sharp blade across the soft skin of her cheeks, which was now wet with warm tears. I continued to carve her beautiful face as she screamed out in unbearable pain. I grinned with pure pleasure at the sight. I trailed the blade to the rest of her body and watched as her skin ripped open. Within minutes, I had created a gorgeous art piece. Mary laid lifeless on the mattress, her face carved to an extent that it had become unrecognisable. I took the liberty of cutting her open and laying her organs around her like petals. The room was now painted in scarlet and I guffawed uncontrollably. I picked up her heart and squeezed it roughly, staring at it like the deranged lunatic I am. I let out a long sigh of satisfaction. “You should have never stolen him from us, Mary.”

Author's Note

Hey, everyone! Hope you like this story i wrote in the perspective of Jack the Ripper :)