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The Ripper

The Ripper
I felt her warm breath on my cheek, caressing it before fluttering away into the night. She, Catherine Eddowes, was waking, so I must hurry. I reach my destination. The door to the house flung open at my foot’s demand. I descended the stairs, my nostrils being assaulted by the stench of rotting flesh that welcomed me back as a friend with open arms. The unconscious woman on my back stirred. She was thrown unceremoniously on the rust stained floor. I fastened her hands to the chains dangling from the ceiling, the cold steel biting into the skin of her wrist. This jarred her to wake. The hostage began belligerently threatening my life, to fetch the police, and saying people were already searching for her. I just smiled. The bag sitting on the table beside her was upended. This silences the previously angry woman. Spilled out of the bag, there were teeth, shriveled ears, and knives, so many knives of so many sizes and shapes; the woman was paralyzed with horror. I selected an almost dainty looking knife.
I teased the knife about the woman, tracing her lips. They trembled. I laughed. The knife found its way to her back. It plunged deep into the flesh of the streetwalker. I pulled the knife out of the woman. The wound wasn’t fatal, but it was painful. It was just a taste of what was to come. I displayed the bloody knife in front of the woman, teasing her, before lifting it to my lips and letting the metallic nectar drip onto my tongue.
All her bravado gone, my ears where assailed by her pitiful begging barely conceivable over the drip drop of her blood. I had had enough. My merciful knife ended her pathetic life in a second. I made quick work of removing her kidney. I slid the bodiless organ into an envelope pre-addressed with the home of George Lusk. I signed the letter, Jack the Ripper




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