18 April 2012
They all say that we have a few skeletons in the closet. If that were true, this creature would be sleeping next to a graveyard.
If he sat next to you in on a park bench, he appeared a regular man. He would smile politely, his face, a warming site to the coldest of days. He would always spare some of his lunch for the pigeons that explored the streets of London. On his head, was a top hat, that covered his gently parted long black hair. He walked down through the centre of Whitechapel every day, a walking stick as his only accompaniment. On weekends, he would visit the Market, then head for the pub, for a stiff whiskey. He then headed drunkenly home at about three in the morning. At least, that's what everyone thought.
As he stumbled. His brain kicked into a sick state of violence and sadistic thoughts. As he rounded the street corner to Miller's court, his stumble became a suspicious strut. He threw his cane to his armpit, and proceeded to lift the of his black waist coat to his cheeks. His hot breath condensed with the cold dark November air, producing a mist that swept like a ghost into the atmosphere.
He arrived at number 13. Three gentle knocks on the door, lured the lady of the night down into a world of cringing traps. Her brown hair was let down as she answered the door. "good evening sir" she whispered "good evening" She took him lightly by the hand and pulled him towards her bed. As she did, he revealed a gleaming cold knife that was now prepared under his black cloak. She fell cheekily against the cleaned sheets, ready for seduction. He smiled. A presence of evil filled the room, as a scream echoed off the walls. A scream that quickly became a thick, bloody gurgle. He raped her mercilessly. Blood sprayed from her throat as the knife tore ever further down her torso. The screaming stopped as he ripped her organs and flung them across the room in a fit of laughter, his mind, so thick, it became a liquid. The animal stopped laughing at the mutilation gradually, as if it were a joke. He picked himself up from the drenched red sheets and put his cloak to his wrist.
He left the dwelling and wandered down the street, picking up the cane as he went. He covered the the blood of his shirt with the cloak and carried on his way, and as he did, he gestured to an oncoming man, "good evening sir" "good evening".
Jack The Ripper • Opuss № I