Fooling them all

They tried to find me.  They blamed a simple minded fool, a Duke, a physician, finally an artist.  They failed.  At first, it angered me. After all, I had given them all kinds of hints both subtle and bold.  I sent letters to my proclaimed nemesis Inspector Abberline and of course Charles Warren. But I did love my little game and in the end, I won.

Many would query why or how? If caught, perhaps they would not ask at all but merely leave me dangling from the scaffold shamefully to be battered with vengeful stones or poked with curious hateful sticks as I once brazenly did, but that is something we will simply never know.

They were hateful crimes.  That I will confess; filled with a jealousy and rage that boiled in my blood with unsatiable heat and uncontrollable desire.  I wanted each of them dead; beyond dead.  I wanted them erased from this earth and with my knife and my hands, I did my best and had my fun. I took from them what made them filthy women and as I tore it from the shells of their bodies, it was soft, warm, and dark.

He was broken when I met him; could never give me the children I deserved or the love I needed from a normal man.  Yet, he never lost the desire to try and so I met his other women; the whores of White Chapel, through his one time friend and mentor; Whistler who had professed to me that during the evenings they spent  in the card rooms, my husband would disappear  Oh they were a foul and disgusting lot; those dahls.  The feeble shillings they earned lifting their skirts was turned around even more quickly to drink or the more rare room for the night. I watched him grunt and push against them in the swill drenched streets and realized how pathetic it was.  But no matter how I tried to reclaim my husband, he made the other choice; an easy dirty woman who slurred his name in the dark against a soot stained wall.

The first one was "Holly" or "Polly" It escapes me now.  I was new to the game. But I knew she had to go because as he tucked money into her dirty hand, she wiped her mouth,  as if he had left a bad taste for her.  A time had been when he was gentle with his lips and kinds with his kiss.  Now? He slobbered and growled like a street dog.

Annie  was a pig.  Bloated and drunk and half crazed with some God forsaken disease; she whored for money for her own full cup leaving children behind.  She often called herself a flower girl.  Hardly.  She deserved no children. She abandoned the ones she'd had while I myself was barren.  It was in the early hours of the morning, that I found them together.  Once my shabby genteel husband had begun his travels homeward, I stepped in.  I removed anything that would identify her as the same gender as me carving and pulling her insides out and strewing them through the street like the rubbish she simply had chosen to be.

Then of course there were the twins, as I like to call them: Catherine and Elizabeth.  This was the only night I struck twice.  I was interrupted the first time leaving only gashes and mild carvings in her overused flesh.  But to catch my husband with a second. later in the same evening, sent me into a rage.  I justly made them undesirable...to ANY man.

The last? Little Miss Mary?  She was the worst of them all.  She had a room.  She took him in.  He kissed her mouth.  Stunned was I to see him try foolishly to be gentle with this common girl.  He had lowered himself and swum in the sewage of the city.  Yet she was somehow deserving of his attention? His affection? Oh no. Not true.  So I took my greatest anger on her.  She had defiled my marriage bed.  I defiled her essence.

So engulfed in his own little trashy game was he, that he failed to notice my own whereabouts.  He rarely asked. I assume now that he didn't care.   It hurt me to know that I wasn't worth effort or want.  I would have tried.  I loved him once but then with his carnal sport, that all fell away and I took my own sense of justice. I followed him on his gentleman's nights.  I saw first hand that he was nothing more than a stinking tomcat.  When he left them, I would swoop in and destroy, (jealously?) those that took his "love" so carelessly; cheaply.  I wrote the letters and had him post them. He was such a fool that he never paid any mind to the addresses.  I left items of his around, his heavy watch chain, monogramed personal linens and my favorite; his bloody initials on the wall of Pretty Miss Kelly.  Nothing.  No one ever saw me.  No one was looking for a woman.

When he was finally questioned and his face was recalled, we swiftly moved.  This did not change his habits; or mine.  But no one bothered to connect the dots so to speak.  I simply continued to punish him.  All that he valued; all the love he sought; I destroyed.

And so now you know.  haha

Fools
Jack the Ripper.




Having studied these atrocities for a long time, I have enjoyed immensely the suppositions and speculations that have surfaced over the years with regards to the true identity of  Jack the Ripper.  I have tons of books, letters, and research; including a book where one author performed DNA tests on the letters.  This is a case that will never die.  I just thought I would put a little spin of my own on it.  I hope you enjoyed it.  It was tough to write and have come together but finally, it did.  I'm pretty pleased.


Thank you for coming in and staying a while.  I appreciate it and your company.




Letters From Hell: SP Evans and Keith Skinner, Sutton Publishing Ltd. 2001
The Diary of Jack the Ripper: First pblsh 1993: Smith Gryphon Ltd
    Narrative/commentary 1993 Shirly Harrison and Michael Barrett
Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper~Case Closed: Patricia Cornwell: 2002