DAMNED

DAMNED

I walk these filthy streets, searching, seeking my prey. For so long, my urges were held in check, just. I am filled with self loathing for how I feel yet I am unable to curtail my murderous activities now that I have finally acted; given vent to my twisted lusts after so many weeks of tortuous, agonising denial.

Who shall stop me now? Only God, if there be such a thing. Yet, how can there be a God that can allow a person such as myself to exist in a metropolis such as this, full of foulness and destitution, attracting more and more scum, like a magnet, to its noxious core?

For one brief, precious moment, as I saw the blood ooze from her neck, I felt a euphoria, a release of all my pent up tension; almost akin to climactic orgasm. Indeed, my seed was later spent. But it was far more than a sexual release. It was a feeling of exultation, joyous achievement and I knew that I could hold back no longer, that, now, my path was firmly set. I must have that feeling again...and again.

I am no uneducated porter or costermonger, no workhouse leech. I do not inhabit the murky world of malefactors and lurkers. No, I am far, far worse: an outwardly respectable gentleman who has come to this cesspit of a city after years of medical training, qualified to practise my skills, destined for a gainful career but the world I choose to occupy instead is as dark and evil as hell itself.

They know it, too. Those ruffians, cutthroats and thugs that cross my path as I drift through the fog at night, lock eyes with me and recognise that I am no victim as they steer a wide berth. Ah yes, the fog; that cloak that shrouds me, hides me, enables me to meander these wretched streets and alleyways unhindered. Could one such as I have a better accomplice? Born of the filth that spouts constantly from the towering chimneys of fine homes and ramshackle slums alike, from ill-smelling manufactories, intertwined with the putrid mists that ascend from the blighted waterways of canals and the mighty Thames, itself. This murky gloominess, contaminating hair and clothing with its blackened smut, is, now, my natural, nightly habitat.

What drew me here? I was respected in my hometown, predicted to make a good marriage, establish a good practice, lead a distinguished and profitable life but only I knew that, deep inside me, something...something vile, something wicked dwelt. As a child, unobserved, I took pleasure from tearing the wings from butterflies, from ripping a leg from a frog and watching its agony. In the schoolhouse, I sat at my wooden desk, staring at the girl in front of me, her long, blonde hair falling in tresses and thought how wonderful it would be to run my compass across her bare throat from ear to ear, not to kill, just to scar her beauty forever. At night, in my room, I would draw pictures of such acts and thoughts, taking especial delight in using my red colouring crayon to display blood.

As I reached the age of puberty, such brutal thoughts became enmeshed with sexual gratification, culmination only achievable by transcending that final taboo of homicide. Thoughts only, of course. Thoughts? Desires, longings, cravings, urges, aspirations.

At university, I remember with stark clarity that first moment I dissected a corpse; a human corpse That tingling sensation that coursed through my entire body, my hands trembling so, the tears of utter joy that fell, unbidden, from my eyes. That night, alone in my room, I recalled the scene, over and over, imagining the corpse had been alive, as, in my ecstasy, I masturbated myself into oblivion.

I had to get away; leave before I did something dreadful. Something that would have exposed me and left me dangling from a rope. I thought to offer my services as a ship’s surgeon to some merchant vessel bound for a land far away but London, I realised, with its growing population of those hoping to turn their luck around, make their fortune, was the only place for somebody like myself. Yet, unlike those who arrived full of expectations, only to be disappointed by what they discovered, I was drawn by the reality; the low-life, the multitude of potential victims, the darkened recesses in which to hide, the lack of morality, the abandonment of hope. This place was as paradise to me.

Of course, I admit that turning fantasy, no matter how strong the compulsion, into actual existence, presents a number of ethical and moral standards that need be crossed still. From a young age, we are taught that to take life is a sin. The Ten Commandments proclaim that: Thou shalt not kill. They also tell us not to lie, steal, commit adultery, want what our neighbour might have, including his wife-all of which are cast aside in the everyday detritus of human misery. Yet, for most, including myself, that final taboo: murder, is a step that is difficult to cross.

Yet, such were my own passions, so long had I been straining at the leash, that I understood, only too well, that I would overcome this prohibition and, once I had killed once, I would not be able to stop for I am, undeniably, accursed and, four nights since, I leapt that prohibited barrier into eternal damnation.

Filthy, putrid, gin-sodden harlot that she was, unwashed, toothless, lank, greasy haired wretch of a human being. Not the choice I would ever have envisioned in my nocturnal imaginations. Yet, such was my bloodlust as I came upon this creature that I could no longer contain myself; my actions instinctive as I grasped her around the jaw with my left hand as she dared offer me her body for the four penny price of a night’s lodging, With my right, I withdrew my blade and sliced her throat, severing her carotid artery; in my frenzy, almost cutting through her vertebrae.

Soundlessly, she fell to the floor dead but, aware that not a soul stirred, as I stared down upon her lifeless person on the dank, damp cobbles, I remained unsatisfied, yearned for more. Kneeling beside her in the dark, I lifted her grimy, sullied dress, pulled down her begrimed, dishevelled undergarments and slashed at her vagina before, making surgical incisions in her abdomen, causing her bowels to be exposed. My heart pounding, my penis engorged, I slunk away from this place, Bucks Row, in the pestilential area of London known as Whitechapel. In the darkened recess of an alleyway, I relieved myself sexually, my hand still warm with the blood of my first victim. Never had I felt such orgasmic relief. I must have more; my course is charted.

What a furore the press has made of this killing. My first, yet they are saying it is my third. Does this mean..are there...can there be... others like myself? More, cursed with this same affliction? Doomed to roam through the fog at night seeking out quarry? Her name, the papers say, was Mary Ann Nichols, a drunken prostitute with a criminal record, no hope, no future. Yet they talk of her as an innocent victim and I as a monster. I who have never, ever fallen foul of the law, who studied diligently to pass my exams and enter the medical profession. I who reside in a reputable establishment and maintain my footwear and clothing in impeccable fashion, spending hours brushing and cleaning the grime and sludge of excrement that are part and parcel of this contagious city life. How dare they label me with some outlandish moniker, designed to strike fear in the hearts of those who inhabit this same twilight world, merely to increase their pathetic circulation. Very well, I shall help them sell their newspapers. I will create an aura of terror such as this capital has never experienced. Jack the Ripper, you say? I will give you Jack the Ripper!