Mr. Ripper

• Artist: WitchAlchemist
• Description: A snippet of my possible first chapter in a book I'm writing. It's from the perspective of my interpretation of Jack the Ripper. The writing is intended to follow his thought path while on the hunt, all scientific detachment and obsession, and wouldn't necessarily be the voice of the rest of the story. I just wondered if I was on the right track so I figured I'd post here. I'd appreciate comments and thoughts, and -helpful- critiques. Thanks! <3
• Date: 07/19/2012
• Tags: jacktheripper jack murder love historical

Infamy is immortality. A martyr is one of many but a villain, a true villain, can live forever with his misdeeds. The driving, overwhelming fear that such a creature inspires lasts long past the warmth and misguided sympathy of one who commits 'good'. Fear is the gateway to immortality, and all fear must have it's source. I am the source, the fear, and the infamy; summed up to my immortal reign by the moniker those who feared have left for me.

I am the Ripper.

...........

Her screams echoed in the narrow alley, but there was no one listen. Or if they listened, they didn't care. The screams of a harlot were nothing extraordinary, and furthermore, who would wish to be involved?

"Please! Please, somebody, help me! Please! Help me!" There was a rising note of desperation in her voice, a shrill, discordant sound that harshed her formally dulcet tones. Panic and adrenaline, and the paralyzing, hopeless fear that choked her breathless as she ran. I took stock of them categorically then because I wanted to know: I wanted to understand what made this creature tick.

I hummed her song as I followed with my knife aloft to the wall to provide the familiar, gritty clink of metal against brick as I drug it along. Sensation, tactile, palpable, tangible. Words flitted through my mind; joined by the singular obsession, that driving force, and the rage which had consumed me for my whole life through.

The woman's cries reached an almost wailing lilt as she found herself backed into a corner, and I found my path in way of her escape.

"Please." she turned to pleading. "Please don't hurt me! I beg you!" And when I did not reply and merely advanced towards her, she sobbed openly and heaved with hitched, broken gasps. "Why are you doing this?" she screamed as her fear climaxed. "What do you want from me?"

And I smiled, without mirth, because she would never understand; she could never understand. The loneliness, the ache, the unspeakable horror of an unending silence, the raw, utter agony of a core rejection. The madness that such pain brings to even the worthiest mind, to even a child's mind.

I did it for her.

Always, it was for her.

...................

Comments

[Napgenius]

Beautiful language. smile I especially liked the opener as it highlights the motivation behind many historical serial killers - a need for attention and fame. The problem with our society is that it gives them exactly what they want. Loverly. (:

[UnfortunateThomas]

I like the wording. It sounds like it's fitting for the time era. I didn't know what a harlot was before, but now I do. Nicely done.