Creative Writing: Jack The Ripper

Walking across a dark alley in the dead center of East London, I frequently see prostitutes flaunting themselves towards simple-minded men. My urge for a vengeance massacre has never escalated to this peak, as I have killed four prostitutes in the past few days. These four killings are just the beginning of the finest murderer in East London. My identity remains unknown, but I call myself Jack the Ripper.
This uttermost hatred for prostitutes evoked when I was a teenager. My selfish father tore my family apart for nothing more than a piece of dirt, by the name of Mary Jones. Mary Jones, found frequently on the corners of streets, the well-known tramp around the hood of London was found flaunting in my home. One night, my mom and I came home

from dinner, and as we stepped foot inside, we found them together. My mother’s jaw dropped and a puddle of tears formed beneath her feet, screaming at my father to get out. With no emotion, my father and Mary stood with no further explanation. My father and Mary stayed together for a year after my parents got separated. He never made time for me in his life after that terrible night. From this point on my father and Mary are responsible for the darkness that boils within me.
Now, these past few days I have been in practice. For what? THE GRAND FINALE. I plan the finale to end the hatred in my heart by slaughtering my father and Mary. I have murdered four prostitutes, individually each of them were superb candidates for this mission. My strategy accommodates killing Mary first, then my father. Mary lies on the corner of Elm Street and Birchwood. Some people never change, as I pass her each day going to and from work day to day. While my dad continues to live a pointless, lazy life in the exact home he found when he no longer was welcomed into my home. I refuse to ever see him until this very night. For the days prior to today I have been stalking Mary and my father, they particularly posses the unvarying routine each day. This plan of actions starts from this point on.
Tonight is the night I will get revenge from my years suffering of pure living torture. I walk down Elm Street and carefully watch Mary as she parades towards other foolish men. I undertake myself as just another curious man as I jaunt up to her.
“Hello, beautiful,” I say, acting as if she hasn’t ruined the last decade of my life.
“Hi, mister you're looking mighty fine this evening,” says Mary, while she bats her long, clumpy eyelashes at me.
“Would you like to take a stroll?” I asked.

“Sure, but this will have to cost you,” she stated.
“Okay, lets make this a night you will remember,” I say as I chuckle in my mind.
As we walk though town we exchange small talk.
“That bracelet is eye-catching!” I exclaimed acting as if it was pretty. I remember that bracelet, slung around her thin wrist, from that very night she decided to tear my family to shreds.
“Thanks, it was my Grandma’s. She left it on her death bed,” she mumbled under her breath.
I almost felt bad, then I realized she was the reason why I am the sick-minded person I am today. We pull along my countryside estate and walk along the rock path leading to my home. As she steps foot into my home, I lock the door behind her. She gazes in awe as she admires my belongings.
“Lets go upstairs.” The impatience of the revenge consumes my words.
As she walks into my bedroom, she makes herself comfortable on the edge of my bed. I grab her forcefully and tie her to the plastic chair that was placed strategically between the end of the bed and the wall.
“What are you doing?” She screamed at the top of her lungs. Acknowledging her comment, I look her directly in the

eyes.
“Remember me?” I ask with a smirk. I grasp my family photo from my wallet and shove it in her face.
Her body collapses in sadness, realizing I was the son of my father.
“I never meant for any of that to happen.”
“Too late.”
I grab my envelope knife from the desk drawer and stoke the flat of the blade as it down lies in the palm of my hand. I stare at Mary in a gaze, flashing back to the sickening memory of neighborhood sleep-around, Mary, and adulterer, my father. She squirmed in the chair once I look my first, and only launch towards her body. Simultaneously, I punctured her heart with the blade causing the blood to puddle upon the wooden floor. Now she knows the heart stabbing pain that I had to go through. I slyly take off the bracelet, and I drag her limb dead body of my home into the dark fire pit. I unload an entire gasoline canister all over it, leaving no spot untouched with the dangerous fuel. I light the match, setting her on fire. After the body burns, I gather her ashes. Now, I go to my final destination to finish this night off.
I drive along the winding road to my father’s home finding him in the same lazy state as expected. Slowly walking up to the door the thoughts of revenge empower me. My once loving dad answers the door, stunned to see my face.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in confusion.
“Revenge,” as I throw him up against the wall and suffocate him. I haul him to the kitchen by the neck and shove him into the old wooden chair.
“Son, what is wrong with you!” my father shouted.
While he screamed for his life, I quickly grab the rope out of my pocket. Then I furiously wrapped the rope around his plump body.
“This is for all the years that your mistake has consumed my life!” I screamed in response to the old, bloody man.
“The accident between Mary and I was never meant to hurt you. You do not know what it was like living with your mother who has a personality of a brick wall!” he proclaims with fire in his eyes.
“Don’t you dare speak about my mother like that, you sick man!”
Speechless, my father stalled and gazed upon the wooden floor beneath his feet. He often opened his mouth to speak, but not a word came out of his mouth. I laughed as I walked to the drawer of knifes. Then I rummaged through the drawer of knives and found the perfect one. This one was the grand butcher’s knife.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” I ask while I trace the knife along his neck.
“You’re worth nothing to me,” he says snarlingly.
“Why, Father, I have a gift for you. I think you will find it most appealing,” I say laughing as I hand him the gift.
He opens the gift with anxiety, suddenly his eyes fill with an overwhelming amount of tears that fall onto his lap.
“How could you do this?” he states in sorrow as he looks upon the ashes of his once love Mary.

He also finds Mary’s trademark softly placed on the ashes, her gold bracelet.
“You tore apart our family into pieces and never bothered to pick them up!” I screech through the bitterness in my voice. I reach for my knife.
“Son, don’t!” Father cries.
I quickly raise my knife above my head, thinking of all the things this man has put me through. I jab the knife into his heart and twist my wrist in every which way. His lifeless body droops to an irregular state. The feeling of accomplishment empowers me. My father’s dead body and Mary’s dead ashes lay before me making me realize my mission is complete.
Not to brag or anything, but covering these murders up was simple. The cops had no evidence of the crime scene and no witnesses even dared to croak a word. I continue to stay in London to see all the action and hype from my great work. Till this day, the younger generation of murderers honor my best work of committing six murders in a few short days.
Even after the murders I have committed, it will never fill the whole in my heart. The twisted, love struck couple molded the fire within me and consequently for the people of London, will never die. The mystery behind Jack the Ripper will never

cease.