Whitechapel Red

The wind smelled putrid at this time of night, but perhaps the blood and gore on one’s leather-gloved hands made it so vial.

Or perhaps it was the stench of poverty slowly poisoning my pure city, dampening the air, rustic enough to peel the sides of the buildings. My once shining jewel of a neighborhood has become impoverished, full of Women of the Night and hungry children covered in soot. What has happened to my sweet Whitechapel, London?

Using a brand new handkerchief to open the door, it’s too late to keep the stench from invading my sanctuary or to save said handkerchief from being painted with my work. I close the door, knowing that it was pointless to believe I can keep the outside air -and the outside world- from staining my home with its filth. It’s dark inside and the air is stale with silence, as God had intended it. Clutching my messenger bag, I staggered inside my home with the only thought of writing filled my mind. I must get to work immediately.

I still wore my gloves as I reached for a match and a candle, setting the stick of wax inside a hand-held lantern before trekking on further into the dark. The door to my study is still open, and I scurry inside. After setting down the lantern, I don’t bother with shedding my hat or coat and immediately get to work on reviving the fireplace with light. My shadows cast onto the peeling walls once the room is filled with burning light. I peel off my gloves and chuck them into the flames. I don’t feel bothered by it. There’s plenty of more gloves out there in the world, paying for them isn’t a problem. Glancing over, my ginger beer bottle filled with my homemade ink is sitting on the mantle by the fireplace to stay warm. Dripping a little of the red liquid onto my finger, I’m disappointed to see that the ink has gotten thick and it stuck like glue. Hardly the result I was expecting to use with a quill. No matter, I’ll make do. I set the bottle back on the mantle, gently caressing the lip as a smile slowly forms on my face. 

It hurts to smile, but it’s nice to find something to make me happy for once. The woman from earlier definitely made me happy, even though I was only able to get away with small parts of her along with her intact womb. I couldn’t get her name, however, as it wasn’t long after I had her in my grasp that she died. If I were to allow her to live long enough, she might’ve screamed for help instead of telling me her name anyway.

My date before her, Mary Ann Nichols, gave me her name. She smiled and laughed and was very open with me emotionally before I split her open physically. Oh, my sweet first date, I had cut her up so bad that I could not take anything away from her intact. I managed to take her red ink with me to keep in my now ginger beer bottle that sits by the fire, but now that it’s thickened and no use to me, I wish I had taken more. I promised myself next time, it would be cleaner, and I would be able to take my prize. As I now clutch the messenger bag that held tonight’s treasure, my shoulders felt lighter knowing I had kept my promise.

The shoulders slump back down when I remember that someone had seen me with my date tonight, I’m sure of it. Someone must have seen us when I asked her, “Will you?” and she answered, “Yes.” So I must feign illness tomorrow until I know what news will be on the paper. Until then, I will write a masterpiece.

I grabbed some parchment and a quill with a small bottle of ink. It’s not the ink I would have liked to use, but it’s red, nonetheless. Sitting down at my desk, I lean back in my chair to think about what to include in my document to the police. To prove the authenticity, I should include what I intend to take from my next date. Perhaps a clipping of her ear? I wonder if I should do that with a knife, or maybe I could get away with ripping it off with my own hand.

Ripping...

Mentioning the red ink would be humorous, along with how difficult it is to wash it off my hands before posting my letter. Ha ha, and to think everyone believes I am a doctor now. What a joke. I chuckle when I think about the leather apron they claim I wear. What a jolly joke they think is so smart. I almost wish I owned an apron to please them, only to rip it all away.

Rip…

The leather apron is shrouding my image, and now they call me by such a title. ‘Leather Apron,’ what a foolish name. I do no such work with that fabric, except with my now discarded gloves. I’m not a manufacturer nor a blacksmith, so what use would a bloody apron be to me? ‘The Whitechapel Murderer’ is also a title they use to describe me, and even though it’s less foolish than an apron, it’s still condescending. 

I will have to change my title to something more like my work. I could sign this letter with my new title, and mock them for the other ones. How foolish they will feel when I correct them of their many mistakes. This letter must be my rising flag on the battlefield, the one I will pierce into the bloodied ground as my victory makes its debut. It must be my standing ovation, and it will be.

But I must be patient and wait to send this letter. The trail is too hot as of now, but I’m sure I’ll find another date to accompany me in the following nights before I deliver this message. Perhaps by then, other hoaxes will arrive to shield my intentions once the media gets a hold of my work.

Maybe I can persuade my dear friend, Freddy Best, to correlate with this letter, and make everyone believe that he wrote it for his small moment of fame. He’d like that, that dog of a journalist, I know he would. No one would be the wiser and then once it’s said and done, no one will claim any authenticity to my writing, giving me more nights to frolic where I please, the fool police commissioner. They won't know how to find me, let alone feel what I feel. They won't understand my work. They will only see a monster. Well, I say let them. Let them believe a monster is doing the dirty work for them, to clean the filth off the streets. To see the end in sight of their eyes, only for me to rip it all away would be personal heaven just for me.

Rip…

That’s it. 

Jack the Ripper. Ha ha.

Dipping the quill into the red ink, I write down the date and my smile has returned as the early morning sun began to make its appearance through the window bedside me. A new day has dawned for little ole’ me, Jack the Ripper.

“September 25th, 1888

Dear Boss--