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They Don't Suspect The Innocent
My name is Katarina Ricci. I was brought from Italy to London when I was twelve-years-old. My family- only my mother, my father, and myself-had little money and knew almost no English. But my family went there happy. I was an innocent child. My father was upset he couldn't make enough money to make ends meet; in anger, he turned to alcohol. He was so desperate for money, he forced my mother to go into prostitution. Every morning, before I went to the factory, my mother would come home exhausted and tears streaking her face, ashamed of what she had done. If she didn't make enough money, my father would beat her heartlessly. Despite this, she would always make sure I had enough money for food. One day, the beating went too far.
I was coming home from my job at one of the many factories scattered about London. My ears were still ringing after listening to the roar of a hundred machines, the loud yells of the adults in charge of my floor, and the screams of children who had the misfortune of sewing their fingers. I flinched as my stiff legs worked their way up the narrow, creaking stairs, when I heard my father screaming in angry Italian. Stumbling with the key, I managed to open the door in time to see my father break my mother's neck. I let out a yelp of shock, and he turned for me.
He stumbled for me in a drunken rage and I ran for the tiny kitchenette; I had snapped. My mother was all I had in the world. She was the one keeping me alive and hanging on. Now that she was gone, I had nothing to lose. My anger surfaced.
In mere seconds, I had gone from the picture of innocence, to nothing but hate and cold blood.
My father was right behind me, roaring threats and nonsense. I grabbed the biggest knife I could find and sunk it into his chest. Madness rushed through my veins, pounded my ears, and fuzzed my vision. I was cackling and I kept stabbing him until he was a pathetic heap on the ground. I stood there, panting and looked at him. I half expected for my insanity to clear away and for me to start regretting what I had just done, but the feeling didn't go away. Madness pumped through my veins and I was filled with a wonderful exhilaration. That was my first taste of blood; I was hooked.
Then, I decided. I decided I would kill any man who used a prostitute. I would kill any man who used a poor woman who was so unfortunate, she was reduced to almost nothing. Any woman who was put through what my mother was put through would be avenged.
A panic was spread through out London. It was a time of industry and success, but dark things started happening. Jack the Ripper haunted Whitechapel, but a new horror was starting to come out of the shadows.
Police had stated finding the mangled bodies of men in Whitechapel. Sailors, business men, merchants- now no one was safe. The police thought that Jack the Ripper was moving onto not only killing prostitutes, but anyone he possibly could. They were close, but oh so wrong.
By the time I was fifteen, I was ready to avenge my mother. I was stronger, could now speak fluent English, and now past the awkward stages of young teen-hood, I had a foreign beauty I knew none of these men could resist. I was ruthless and cold blooded. I was more than ready.
On the night of my tenth kill, I went out with my blood pumping. I was mead with excitement- or maybe I was just mad. It was the twelth of November and the wind heartlessly whipped through the streets.Men rushed by with their cloak collars high, trying too fend off the freezing wind. Women ran, hoping to get home before it got too late. It was a rare thing for a woman to be out after dark, because of the string of murders in Whitechapel. I didn't care much for this Jack the Ripper nonsense. I killed more- I was the bigger threat. and here he was stealing my glory, fame, and fear.
I took my stand where I stood every night- under the yellowish light of a street lamp on a corner. After an hour, a potential customer came up. I couldn't see his face, but I honestly didn't care. A customer was a victim, right? He was fairly well dressed in a black top hat that shadowed his eyes and nose, a long black coat that destroyed any hope at seeing his mouth and chin, and black, custom tailored pants. I smiled sweetly but cackled on the inside- I was going to get good money for this kill!
He stopped a few feet away from me and tipped his hat, "Good evening, young miss."
"Buonasera, sir, can I be of service to you?" I slid my hand into a side pocket I had sewn into my skirt- my knife was still there. Perfect.
"Good evening, signora," The man reached into his pocket for his wallet, "Name your price."
I though for a bit- he obviously had a lot of money and I wanted some. Ten kills demanded good pay for me, "Say... Ten pounds, signore?"
He pulled out the money and closed my hand around it, "Six pounds."
He took hold of my hand and pulled me to wherever his heart desired. We passed a bar surrounded by drunken men shouting obscenities and pure nonsense. Alcohol lingered in the air and my anger flared. I took deep breaths to calm myself- if I killed this man here and now, I would get caught.
The man continued to drag me through a maze of alleys, prostitutes, drunks, and ancient, abandoned buildings. We finally stopped at an alleyway that looked like nothing special. The walls were covered in moss and mold and the bricks were ancient. Well, I thought, he certainly doesn't have high standards for such a rich man. He led her to the very back of the alley.
We stopped. I turned to him, "Well, I guess we should- Aagh!"
The man slammed me against the wall, "I apologize, singora, but this is the last night you'll be poisoning this earth!"
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a knife covered in dried blood. D***. I was picked by Jack the Ripper. He held the blade up to my throat. My blood rushed cold and excitement ran through my veins. So this is what it feels like to be at the other end of the blade, I thought.
"First," He said, "I'm going to slit your throat. Then, I'm going to carve you up. You won't be so pretty once I'm done with you."
Suddenly, I was furious. I came too far to be killed! My fame was not going to be this short lived! I focused all my strength into my leg and kneed the Ripper's crotch. He folded up instantly and I made a mad dash- I needed to get out of this man's reach. I reached for my own knife and turned around. Jack flinched in pain, but he sprang up. Rushing towards me, he grabbed my hair and tried to slice at my neck. Dodging his knife, I forced my knife into his gut. He paused momentarily, as if not sure how to react to it, but seconds later let out a scream I would imagine only the most tortured souls cry. He fell to the ground, just barely clung onto his life.
I picked up his blade and, to the sound of his short, raspy breaths, carved him with his own knife. I ripped Jack the Ripper. He kept screaming until finally he was a lifeless heap of clothes and gore. It was almost like poetic justice- ripping Jack the Ripper with his own knife. I sunk the knife into his chest, wiped my own knife on his coat, and walked away.
My name is Katarina Ricci. I was brought from Italy to London when I was twelve-years-old. Now I am fifteen, and I am the biggest threat London has to offer. I killed Jack the Ripper and nine other men. No one has caught me or even suspected me. Besides, who would ever suspect such an innocent girl?