Killing Time

For anyone who has never abandoned me, for anyone who has firmly stood by what they believe in, and for anyone who has followed this novella's evolution throughout the years, I dedicate my work to you.

―Rebecca Ortega

Author's Note

Dear Reader,

You have my sincerest thanks for expressing interest in reading my tale. Of course, a story of such graphic nature deserves a few…cautions, if you will. Primarily, I must warn you of the events at the core of this narrative: the Jack the Ripper murders in London (1888). Additionally, autopsy reports mentioned in this story are direct quotations or paraphrases of genuine morgue documents and therefore should not be taken lightly. In a nutshell, this novella is exciting, twisted, dark, and exceptionally graphic, so please, read at your own discretion. In order to ease you, reader, into this sinister tale of obsession and madness, I shall share with you a few particulars of the Jack the Ripper case and Victorian London.

Jack the Ripper, whose aliases included "The Leather Apron" and "The Whitechapel Slaughterer", is classically known to have killed and butchered five prostitutes in the Whitechapel district of Victorian London between constant Scotland Yard police patrols at 15 minute intervals. These victims include Mary Anne Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Kelly. (However, in my narrative, I will incorporate a sixth victim, Martha Tabram. She was murdered on August 7, 1888.) Theories about Jack the Ripper's identity have ranged from Jewish barbers to the Duke of Clarence himself. Unfortunately for the metropolitan police, the little evidence left behind at the crime scenes and the lack of fingerprint recognition technology made the case unsolvable. Countless investigators and Ripper fanatics have claimed to have solved the mystery on their own accord, but to this day no individual has discovered the true identity of this heinous killer.

Reader, it would not come to me as a surprise if you are thinking why in God's name I would be interested in such a morbid subject. However, the mystery of it all has sparked my interest, drawing me in like an Unfortunate to the tinkling of dropped coins on the ground. By reading this tale, it is my hope to immerse you into the world that was East End London, with in-depth detail and prevalent use of traditional Cockney slang. It is my goal to produce within you, reader, a fascination for the individual who was the notorious Jack the Ripper and to perhaps persuade your curiosity to join in the never-ending mystery of Whitechapel.

Enjoy,

Rebecca Ortega

"O, have you seen the devil with his microscope and scalpel a-looking at a kidney with a slide cocked up."

—Jack the Ripper

The Fourth Night:

POST-MORTEM

Whitechapel is a filthy place, home to hundreds of prostitutes willing to spread their legs for any man just to dig a worthless sixpence from the stinking muck, immigrants with but a shilling in their pockets barely succeeding to make ends meet, and opium addicts lying oblivious on the street corners in their fantasy state of intoxicated euphoria. It's full of drunks staggering down the roads with the stale odor of raw whiskey lingering on their breath. The windows of the buildings have cracks spidering out from random corners, holes where rocks have crashed through, and paint peeling off the outer walls plastered with yellowing advertisements for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Dimly lit street lamps flickering in the moonlight barely glimmer through the thick pea-souper fog: gases rising from sewage running freely through the streets. The sickly green clouds blend with the dull gray haze of smoke from the thousands of coal-burning chimneys. The sheer smell of the place; the alcohol, the cigarette smoke, and the animal-like lifestyles mixed together are enough to make one's nose turn up and stomach churn.

London is flipped upside down, for the sun may rise in the east, but Whitechapel is consumed by the darkness of hopelessness, despair, and loveless sex while the West End continually sparkles of cleanliness and wealth. To those creatures of the night living in the poverty-stricken East End, the high up and fancy-to-do citizens of London remain as foreign as the alternate realities they conjure up in their deep drunken stupors. Any person from the West End must visit Whitechapel in secret if they are looking for pleasure, for one would be cast away by ones peers if they were spotted making an appearance in that vile area, thrown out like a cheese, rotted, maggot-infested and covered in mold. In the West End the buildings are clean and stately, contrasting starkly with the grime-encrusted decrepit buildings that are nearly in shambles in the East End. Roads are organized and effortless to navigate in the wealthier portion of the city, but the streets in Whitechapel wind and twist in a spiraling maze of narrow lanes and alleyways, interrupted by darkened entrances one should be terrified to pass without the fear of unknown arms dragging you into the black abyss. The inhabitants there are just as troublesome, known as "Unfortunates", the vermin of London.

As an officer of Scotland Yard, it's not the opium addicts, the drunks, or the immigrants I have to watch out for…It's those bloody prostitutes. These whores could have become respectable women, but now grime covers their pale white skin, dresses torn up the seam to their thighs, breasts nearly escaping their tightly laced bodices. They'll do just about anything for a drink. They'll lie, cheat, steal; it doesn't matter to them. All they desire is enough spratt in their pockets to beg for a shot of cheap whiskey to drown their torment in the smoke-filled, run-down Ten Bells Pub. And this "Jack the Ripper" character isn't doing much for the place either, except for getting it more dirty of course. Three murders already: all vile and disgusting. I have yet to have the pleasure of viewing a "Ripper murder" in person, but I'm not looking forward to it.

Police Chief Warren has made it mandatory for all police officers and investigators to take part in the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. In layman's terms, it means he's got us patrolling the place every fifteen minutes searching under every goddamned bangtail's skirt for this killer. I can barely stand thinking of the place, let alone be there. I work my arse off for Warren so I can live peacefully in my mid-income flat in the West End, and now he wants to send me to go trudge in the East End's muck?! Bollucks, bloody sodding bollucks. Personally, I think this Ripper fellow was clever to choose that district. Those uneven cobblestone roads make it nearly impossible not to hear our clunky leather-soled boots tromping down the streets. It's perfect for someone to make a hasty retreat, and no one really knows each other by name except for the prostitutes of course. Does Warren think we're actually going to find him? We lack even a half-way decent physical description, so how could we rightfully convict the blighter?

When all this blood and gore began to fly, Warren passed the blazing torch of power to our ever-so-competent Chief Inspector Abberline. He enlisted me to join the Ripper Case after the body of Mary Anne Nichols was discovered on Buck's Row by a carman who thought the bangtail was either dead or pissed off her arse. The Chief Inspector immediately used this as a sick recruiting excuse to maroon new victims in that foul district. Fortunately for me, I have not played much of a role in this case, and frankly, I think Abberline's an idiot for accepting it. I sit slouched at my police desk absent-mindedly skimming reports from the crime scenes, consciously recognizing but a few words; "Buck's Row", "slashed", "sliced", and "severed". Yet they have no effect, sounding murky and muffled through my sleep-deprived daze as my head goes limp and sags down to my chest. I slip off into a dream, and the fountain pen falls from my loosened grip, rolling across the wooden floor of the police station.

Why hello, hello, who have we become this time 'round? Chief inspector? What is that god-awful stench?! Sod, it's me…and why am I in a bloody dress? Oh Jesus: I'm a prostitute.

My mouth is as arid as if I had not had a sip of water for weeks on end; inescapable dread and despair consume my body. I feel as if I am plummeting through an endless abyss and aware of my fate, for this craving for liquor is the drive behind escaping my fatal plunge. I take in my surroundings, and comfort bubbles up in my soul at the sight of the peeling walls, cracked sidewalks, and clouded air …

Suddenly, I become aware of the multiple layers of red fabric that are fitted on my body underneath the mix-match patch-job of the dark colors making up my attire. Wisps of black hair tickle my neck from where my loose bun has fallen out. My slender figure feels weighted, as if I am carrying all my worldly possessions on my person. I'm in a dark alleyway with absolute silence around me except for a few cats meowing and the muffled shouts from the streets. It appears to me I am the only person doing business tonight, knowing very well the place I call my home is crawling with other prostitutes, beggars, and evicted families every night of the year. A greasy drizzle of rain falls from the sky as if it were the Lord's failed attempt to cleanse my kind. The grey droplets run down my cheeks and stain what little white remained on my dress.

Children with dirt-speckled noses chase each other through the twisting streets, singing, "First falls one, two, three, and then there's four. Hide, ye mothers; Old Jack's knocking on your door. Knock one, two, three…" The creaking of wooden coach wheels stops abruptly in front of me. Oh look, a customer.

I notice a man approaching me from the far end of the alleyway facing the poorly-lit street side. The luxurious black carriage he has exited from is pulling swiftly away. This man is from the West End. His shadow silhouettes a top hat and dark flowing cloak. His black leather dress shoes quietly shuffle against the uneven, cracked cobblestones, swish, swish, swish. In fact, the only clothing on him that isn't black is the pair of small snow white gloves he wears on his hands, which glow with a faint iridescent aura in the moonlight. He has a confident swagger, a long gate, and a face hidden by the dark of night.

"Hello, love," he greets with a smooth, deep formal tone.

"Wha'll it be tonigh', sir," I ask, hearing my high-pitched feminine voice for the first time, startling slightly from an unfamiliar, thick Cockney accent.

"Well, ducky, I was hoping you would follow me to my living quarters. I shall make it worth your while."

"Oh really? And 'ow is tha'?" I question smartly.

"How about I make you a bargain? You come with me, and I'll pay you double your goin' rate, feed you until you're uncomfortably full, and you may drink wine to your heart's content," he proposes self-assuredly.

I have yet to have a drop of alcohol tonight, and this is an offer I would never refuse, even if this man was the ugliest creature I had ever seen. I lean into him and rest my hand on his chest and place my head below his neck; nevertheless, I am unable see his face, as it is concealed in the shadows. "Tha' would be lovely," I reply seductively.

What the hell are you doing, lady? A gloved hand materializes from beneath his cloak, taking my hand with surgeon's care and delicately kissing it before chivalrously offering me his arm. We meander down the streets of the dim alleyways; I snuggle up to his side with my head on his cloaked shoulder. I will be treated like a bloody queen tonight!

Suddenly, he pulls me close, my back resting against his front, and breathes into my ear, "Come now, lovey. I can't wait any longer." I attempt to turn to face him and gaze into hidden eyes, but his arm is firmly constricting my movement. His other arm rustles about in his overcoat, as if he's searching for something lost deep inside the pocket; he retrieves the object. It is silver and shining in the moonlight, but I can't tell precisely what it is from my obscured peripheral vision; perhaps a flask of whiskey. He makes a swift, broad movement with his arm, and for an instant I feel the iciness of metal against my—

RED. RED. I fight to scream out for help as a searing pain rushes to my neck, but only a gurgling hissing sound escapes from my dying body. Helpless as I watch blood drain from my neck, a cooling blackness enters my being, starting from my head and tingling down in pulsing waves to my feet. I float downward into a black cloud, completely limp, as numb as he was to my suffering. This is no tunnel of light.

Suddenly, I feel a skeletal hand take a strong grip on a lock of my hair, pulling my neck back and nearly forcing it to my shoulder blades, as countless more cling onto my extremities. Claws pierce and shred my skin, as faceless black figures pull and tug with the hope of ripping off some flesh for themselves, screeching noises too horrible, too piercing, for this earthly realm. Unable to scream, I am torn limb-from-limb and disemboweled alive, my heart ripped from my chest, plummeting into the deepest circles of Hell.

"Inspector Andrews!" I wake up with a jolt, grasp my neck to make sure it's still whole, and wipe the cold sweat from my brow. The young face of a new police officer is staring back concernedly at me.

"Holy shite, I'm still alive?" I ask myself.

"What?" The officer questions confused. "Sir, are you well?"

"Never mind that. What do you want with me?"

"Police Chief Watkins has found another body in Mitre Square."

"What?!" I nearly fall out of my chair in bewilderment. "When did this happen?"

"Only an hour ago, at 2 o'clock…Are you certain you're feeling well, inspector Andrews?"

"If I say yes, will you stop pestering me about it?

He sighs. "Never mind."

"I thought that's what you'd say," I retort, "Now, this body, is it a Ripper?"

"It has to be. I've seen it myself."

"That bad, eh? And why are you telling me this? Looking for some emotional support from a senior, are we?"

"Um, no, actually. Inspector Abberline wants you to retrieve the autopsy reports from the Golden Lane Morgue."

Oh joy. Now I have to look at the bloody creature. "When does he want them," I groan in misery.

"Immediately, inspector."

"Very well, I will leave right now," I reply reluctantly. "The 'king' might put me in the dungeon if I don't bring the royal documents to his majesty's noble sausage-fingers."

"Inspector Abberline will be awaiting your return," he replies after giving me a strange, disapproving stare.

"Dismissed." The officer gives a slight nod, turns, and marches stiffly out of the room.

With a heave, I raise myself out of my chair and stretch my arms and back with a bit of a moan as I massage my stiff muscles from a long sleep, knowing there is no way of avoiding this encounter with a Ripper corpse.

I joined the Metropolitan Police force when I was a young man, cocky as all bloody hell and completely naïve to the evils of this god-forsaken world. Never in my life would I have imagined coming in contact with such gruesome violence. What will it look like? Will I have the stomach for it? Of course you will…Oh God, what if it's in pieces? I imagine bloody entrails, a stray eyeball, a pair of exsanguinated lips, and two ears floating in a puddle of blood across the morgue's examination table, and I grow nauseous. Maybe I can't do this. Maybe Abberline needs to send another man. What if everything's still leaking blood? What if I recognize the woman? I stop dead in front of the Golden Lane Morgue's doors. They tower over me, crimson, and derelict; the paint has obviously never been fixed, as most of it has chipped off from the many years of abuse. I reach forward hesitantly, gripping the dirt-speckled handle of one of the two monstrous wide doors. My hand stays there, clenched in a death grip as a sudden tidal wave of fear immerses my body, engulfing me in its waters.

Calm down. Take a deep breath. It's only a body. How bad can it be? It can't hurt you. Just get it over with, and do it fast. I give a long exhale, releasing the poison of mad delusion from my body, as I ready myself for this leap into the unknown—

"Ah, Inspector Andrews. I've been expecting you. I'm Doctor Brown." He is a short, squat man with thinning grey hair, wearing a yellowed apron and glasses so large they eclipse his face. "The victim is just inside, if you would follow me please." I give a hasty nervous nod, anxiety rising with each passing second.

He pushes the door wide open for me and extends an arm, palm open, tacitly inviting me in. I follow him down the blindingly white sterile hallway, the strong and unpleasant odor of embalming liquids swirling into my nasal cavities, stalking us like a wild animal pursuing its prey. We travel down the long corridor until we arrive at the entrance of the examination room. Here is the source of the stomach-churning smell. The tremendous door is pushed open and the putrescent fumes blow into me like a gust of wind rushing off a stagnant pool of raw sewage strewn with dead, rotting rodents. Yellowing concave porcelain examination tables line the walls, organs immersed in formaldehyde fill the shelves, and menacing surgeon's tools lie on stands, clearly only fit for autopsy or use on animals. The lone occupied gurney lay in front of us with a white shroud over the body.

"Would you like to see the victim?"

"I'm not sure I would," I reply hesitantly.

"I think you should to understand my findings, inspector."

"Fine. Please lift the sheet," I wince.

The snow white cloth is first pulled back from her face, mutilated and slashed, then to her slit throat, her butchered abdomen, and down to her feet. I run my fingertips across my neck, haunted by my vivid nightmare.

"It's horrible, isn't it," the doctor sullenly inquires with his eyes averted from the body, a yellowed towel over his nose in a futile attempt to block the putrid smell.

I feel the bile crawling up the back of my throat and am barely able to cough out, "It's disgusting." I do not know how much longer my stomach will last in front of this monstrosity, but I must retrieve the reports. I will never hear the end of it if I go back to Abberline empty-handed.

"Are you alright inspector? Shall I continue?" He questions concernedly, his voice muffled nearly beyond comprehension.

No, I'm not alright. Do you even think for one second that a person seeing this for the first time would be "alright"? I swallow hard and force the vomit back down my throat. Tearing slightly from the effort, I stutter, "Y-yes. Go on." I retrieve a notebook and a pen out of my uniform. "Name?"

"Catherine Eddowes. Found dead in Mitre Square at 1:30 PM. Whitechapel District."

"Wearing at time of death?"

"A black straw bonnet, black clot jacket, dark green chintz skirt with three flounces, a man's white vest, petticoat, a pair of men's lace-up boots, and brown ribbed knee stockings. All worn, dirty, and tattered of course."

"Mm-hmm," I murmur as I scribble, "Possessions when found?"

"Six pieces of soap, one empty matchbox tin, one red leather cigarette case, a printed handbill..." The doctor continues to list her belongings, items mostly belonging in a rubbish bin.

"Very well. Now that we're finished with the preliminary report," I sigh deeply, "Let us go on to the body." I turn to a fresh page in the notebook.

"Upon initial examination at the crime scene, the body had not experienced any death stiffening and was still warm, indicating she had been murdered within a half hour of discovery."

I envision Catherine desperately reaching for a handhold to drag her dying body into the open, hearing clunking footsteps of police as she is taking her final dying breath. I see her blood making checkerboard patterns in the bricked ground, passing over the dirt barriers in its way. I shake the image from me with great difficulty before asking awkwardly, "Wounds?"

"When her clothing was removed, a piece of her ear dropped from her dress. The intestines were drawn out quite a ways and thrown over her right shoulder. The victim's throat was initially cut across left to right. No struggle." He pauses, obviously disturbed.

"Please go on. It's vital for me to retrieve all the facts." I don't get paid enough for this shite.

He exhales, reluctant to continue. "Both eyelids were sliced down to the bridge of the nose. The tip of the nose was almost completely severed."

"Would it be possible to move from the face please," I ask with a grimace as I gaze upon the mangled head.

"The throat was slashed, and the jugular vein, carotid artery, larynx and vocal chords were severed. She wouldn't have been able to scream."

"What about the inner organs?"

"Her liver was stabbed. The cut was such that it left her navel hanging on a tongue of skin, and about two feet of the colon was cut out, almost artistically." His eyes move down the blood-stained skin of the body to her navel. "One thing is quite queer about this corpse, inspector: her left kidney and womb are missing."

Desperate to change subjects, I splutter out, "Could you please hypothesize a cause of death and comment about who this person might be?"

"Cause of death was a hemorrhage in the left carotid artery, resulting in full blood-loss; wounds were inflicted post-mortem. As for the killer, to know how to remove the kidney and its exact location in the body, the murderer would have needed extensive knowledge of human or animal anatomy. I'd guess a doctor or a butcher, personally. My question is what does one do with a woman's womb and kidney?"

"That is a mystery to all of us. The only way to know is to catch Jack the Ripper red-handed…literally."

"Well, I wish you luck in your pursuit. Hopefully we will meet again, but under more enjoyable circumstances."

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Brown. This information is crucial to our investigation."

"Of course, inspector." He turns to an assistant on his right, "We're through. Please return the victim to the examination table,"

The sheet is pulled over her face once again, shielding Catherine's disgrace and shame from the world. I shake the doctor's hand firmly and travel back down the lengthy sterile corridor to the tall crimson doors that initially stopped me in my tracks. I carry with me a notebook filled with details of this woman's tragic fate. I pause in front of the doors to hear the muffled sounds of paperboys shouting, "Extra! Extra! Jack the Ripper strikes in Mitre Square! Scotland Yard still on the chase with no arrests, but with suspects! Extra! Extra!" I push open the door, and the late day sun hits my face as I re-enter a place ruled by the living after a long stay in a land ruled by the dead.

"I can't wait to get to work again."

—Jack the Ripper

The Fifth Evening:

A LETTER FROM HELL

He's desperate for suspects now. Ever since graffiti was found chalked on the wall on Goulston Street in the Whitechapel District, Abberline has been pointing his fat Chief-Inspector-finger at any Jew who has the slightest reason to be Jack the Ripper. It's complete bollocks. Why would Jack the Ripper leave a clue so obvious out in the light of day for the public to see? For god sakes, the killer's already succeeded in the mass-hysteria category, so what's the use of this? "The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing," the Ripper wrote, and now Abberline's on a rampage. It's a pity Police Chief Watkins didn't have it washed off sooner. Abberline is suspecting a shoemaker "because he has access to five-inch blades," however coincidentally, this man is Jewish. The latest suspect is a hairdresser who hates women and is possibly insane. Who doesn't hate women at times? They're bloody sniveling little pampered twits!

Guess what's common between the two suspects? Yes, they are both Jewish. Now Jews are boarding doors, shutting curtains, and closing shop because every ignorant citizen in England thinks their Jewish neighbor is Jack the Ripper waiting behind their doors for the right moment to strike. The media has a complete field day with every murder and every suspect we name, but I think the public is losing its trust in Scotland Yard, seeing we have no real leads…This is madness.

Abberline may be shaken about five murders passing by without a conviction, but I'm still washing the odor of formaldehyde out of my clothing from my excursion to the Golden Lane Morgue. Frankly, if five killings have taken place already, and we haven't caught this monster, then we never will. Jack the Ripper, or whatever his name may be, has it down to a science by now and is most likely perfecting his skills in eluding the finest police force in the world. (Or the stupidest, as the Yank newspapers likes to say.) He has taken a liking to writing us letters as well on brown, faded, and tattered paper with either red ink or blood (we can't tell which) smeared and splattered all over the parchment. The context of the writing matches the grisly appearance, containing taunting phrases like "catch me when you can", "I think you all are asleep Scotland Yard", and "what a dance I am leading." In fact, it may have been only a week ago when he told Chief Inspector Abberline through a letter that he was "only a pawn in his little game."

I hope he's having a good laugh at Scotland Yard because these so-called "investigators," complete imbeciles in my opinion, haven't been able to decipher the letters beyond the obvious. This Jack the Ripper chap is probably lounging back in his bloody chair and thinking to himself, "Oh what a laugh! I've given them everything, and yet they still can't figure out who I am! Ha! Those bloody gormless sods wouldn't know a clue if it was slapped across their gobs!"

This is completely ridiculous! He's given us an indication about the number of murders that he will commit for god's sake: six, a satanic implication, no doubt. However, the Neanderthals upstairs insist on telling Abberline the threats are bluffs and that the officers need not be constantly on their guard for much longer. As much as it so kills me to say it, I think we need to double our patrols of that dreadful place. More patrolling officers in shorter intervals mean less time is available for Jack the Ripper to commit a murder.

"You just wait," I say to Abberline, "I'll bet you every single one of those six murders will be committed right under our noses, and we'll be unable to do shite about it! Bleedin' hell, Abberline, there's been five already, so what's stoppin' him from committing another?"

Then Abberline, he says to me, "Inspector Andrews," he says, "I have complete faith in the investigators upstairs, and I am convinced that the madness of these killings will be forgotten in time, and no one will remember 'Jack the Ripper,' " he replies mockingly. He's out of his mind! There is no bloody way in hell this will be "forgotten in time".

"Fine. Whatever you say, Chiefy." I roll my eyes.

"I'm being earnest with you, Andrews. All of this madness will soon be history. It's not like this kind of thing is out of the ordinary down there. Be patient; these things take time to solve. You of all people should know that, inspector."

To Hell with being patient. I nod with an "oh-yes-you-are-so-intelligent-and-I-am-but-an-idiot-undeserving-to-lick-your-boots" expression: I like my career, and I'd like to keep it for god sakes.

I amble out of his office back to my oaken desk to look over the police and autopsy reports of Catherine Eddowes and now Elizabeth Stride, the so-called "Double Event".

"'These things take time to solve,'" I whisper sarcastically to myself, "This one is different, and I fear it will come to neither a conclusion nor a conviction. I have never seen wounds as gruesome as this on a murder victim." I sigh. But there's no sense to sit in a corner in a strop brooding over what I think, so I'll simply have to go along with that idiot who calls himself 'Chief Inspector'." He's still as brainless as any of the officers here regardless of his absolute confidence of his own infallibility, so sure of every procedure he carries out. Sod the fact that he's been here some 20-some odd years. I won't be arsed into agreeing with him.

"Andrews." Oh piss, it's Chief Watkins. What in the bloody hell could he possibly want?

"Yes, sir," I reply in a deeply irked tone.

Not fazed by my attitude, he replies, "News of that little tiff between you and Abberline has been circling 'round the station. What did he say?"

"He said to wait, as it will soon be forgotten. He said it takes time for these things to be resolved," I answer without making eye contact.

"I see. Well, I guess it's best to take his advice then."

I raise a curious, mocking eyebrow at him, "What? No 'Thank you so much for telling me your personal conversation?' Honestly, Watkins, I took you for a gentleman. Now, do me a favor. Next time, keep your abnormally large nose out of other people's business."

"Fine," he retorts. As he leaves my desk and reaches the wooden doorframe, he slyly questions over his shoulder, "Still having that dream where you turn into a whore?"

I give him a sarcastic smirk, "Piss off, Watkins." He smiles wryly and exits the room. However, I am troubled, for I had indeed been having that dream since the murder of Catherine Eddowes. With Watkins' question on my mind, I stare blankly out a window overlooking the sidewalks bustling with people and the streets congested with traffic of extravagant and simple coaches. I re-live the icy coolness of his blade searing my skin before he slit my throat, but the sensation remains as unexpected as it was on the fateful night of Eddowes' slaughter. It still frightens me to death at night to see myself in this dream clutching my own throat, watching helplessly as blood spurts from my neck, struggling desperately to cough out the words "help me", only to hear hissing and popping, glurglur-bl-st-st-gl. I gasp for air as the frigidness of death's hand is placed upon my shoulder…

I am rudely jolted back to reality with the piercing harshness of Abberline's voice calling my name. "Sorry, I was contemplating the case," I lie, "What do you need?"

"How could you have possibly not heard me? I was a meter away from you!" He questions me frustrated.

"I tend to block out all external sounds when I'm deep in thought…especially the annoying ones, Chief Inspector. And damn, I was on the brink of a breakthrough too," I reply sarcastically.

He stares at me, clearly irritated. "Do not talk back to your superiors, Andrews." There is a long awkward silence between us. Abberline is waiting for an apology, but I would have to be dangling by my toes over a vat of acid in order for that to happen. Finally, realizing he's not going to squeeze a "sorry" out of me, he orders, "Take this to Mr. George Lusk. It's been sitting in my office for so long that I've nearly forgot about it." He shoves into my hands a letter addressed in red ink accompanied by a twine-enlaced parcel no bigger than my fist. This looks like a Ripper letter! Why wasn't this delivered sooner? Must be a hoax. My curiosity gets the best of me though, for I am too anxious to know the contents of the parcel and what the letter says to quibble with Abberline to avoid his petty task.

"You can trust me with this, Chief Inspector. I will deliver this to the president of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee right away."

"Don't get sarcastic with me, Andrews."

"I'll return shortly," I answer in a daze, my eyes fixed upon the tattered envelope. I walk to the main entrance and push open the heavy wooden doors. I step onto the sidewalk, remembering that the last time I walked the streets of London was to set off for the Golden Lane Morgue. A series of chills travel up my spine as I imagine the tip of the Ripper's blade running the length of my back and his warm breath snaking down my neck.

Mister Lusk is earning a small fortune because he is president of this committee, so as one can imagine, the grandeur of his home is daunting. It is massive, probably the size of an entire inn, with fresh white paint without a single chip and double cherry wood doors. The garden itself is extravagant, lush, and green with vines of ivy crawling up the outside walls of the house, a fountain of an innocent cherub spouting water from its mouth. Two blood red rose bushes in full bloom are planted by the doors. I arrive at the locked entrance and wipe my feet on the doormat, unfortunately feeling poor and dirty after comparing my meager abode to this embodiment of success and perfection. I take the heavy brass door-knocker in my palm and clap three times on the door; a butler promptly ushers me in.

"Mr. Lusk has been expecting you, sir. He is dreadfully anxious to see this letter. His office is located just up the grand staircase, down the hall, and to the right."

I glance to my left and catch a glimpse of a coat rack with a long black cloak draped over one of its dark wooden hooks, and reply distractedly, "Thank you." I ascend the white marble staircase, following the butler's instructions. I pace down the creaky wooden hallway, locate the door, knock lightly, and am immediately answered by a dry raspy voice.

"Who's there?"

"Inspector Andrews from Scotland Yard. Chief Inspector Abberline sent me to your home to deliver a letter and a parcel."

"Ah! Yes, come in quickly! Your Chief Inspector needs to get on top of things, lad. I've been waiting for this for two weeks!"

"Begging your pardon, Mister Lusk. Regardless, I've only seen the outside of this letter, sir," I remark as I enter the room and take a seat on an uncomfortable wooden chair, "But I can't help but to ask if this is a Ripper letter?" George Lusk stares back at me in wonder of my knowledge, his white hair shining in the sunlight, his old face filled with wisdom and experience, contemplating my question to the fullest extent.

"Well, we shall see when we open it, won't we? Now hand it over so we can get to it." He gently accepts the letter from my hand and then proceeds to break the unstamped red wax seal on the envelope. He slips out the message and carefully unfolds the torn and ragged parchment.

As he parts his cracked lips to read, I interject, "Couldn't we open the parcel first?"

"Eager, aren't we? You know what they say, Inspector Andrews; curiosity killed the cat."

"I know, I know. But could we just open it before reading the letter? I'm nearly positive the note is a hoax anyway."

"How can you be so sure," he questions with a sharp gleam in his eyes before shaking his head slightly with a smirk at my youthful enthusiasm. "Alright then, have it your way." He pulls the tail on the bow of twine and carefully lifts the top off of the tiny make-shift box. After gazing inside for only a split second, his eyes widen to fill the lenses of the slender bifocals perched upon the ridge of his thin nose. With a hand to his chest, Mr. Lusk gasps and drops the box, spilling a purple liquid smelling of sour fermented grapes onto his floor. He averts his eyes, shocked and disgusted.

"What the bloody hell…" I bend down hurriedly and scoop up the package for myself and peek inside. I, too, gasp in utter horror, for I nearly vomit when I lay eyes upon the object submerged in the deep-red liquid. A human kidney.

"Who would do such a thing?!" George Lusk shouts with disgust.

"Wait. Before we do anything rash, what does the letter say?" I ask hesitantly. He unfolds the paper, his hands now trembling, revealing the bright crimson ink. The letter reads:

From Hell.

Mr Lusk,

Sor,

I send you half the kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

signed

Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

"Do you know anything about this, Inspector Andrews," Lusk questions me warily. "Is this some sick prank of Abberline's?!" He growls.

"Absolutely not! All I have done in this investigation is retrieved the autopsy reports for Abberline about Catherine Eddowes." He's fuming. I hurriedly spit out, "The mortician explained that he found it extremely odd that she was missing a—…" I pause, bewildered.

"Missing a what?" Mr. Lusk grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me violently. "What was she missing, inspector?"

"She was… missing her left kidney," I reply sternly as my eyes harden and meet with Lusk's.

He shortly exhales before ordering, "Hurry back to Scotland Yard, and tell Abberline to alert the public, the newspapers, and the rest of the police force that we have a cannibal at large in Whitechapel."

"Sir, perhaps we should wait until you're in the right mind to—"

"I'll be fine. This is much more important than if I've been taken aback. People's lives are at stake!"

"But sir…"

"Just GO!"

I rush out of Mr. Lusk's house, neglecting to bid him farewell, nearly sprinting the way back to Scotland Yard, zigzagging my way through the crowds of people on the sidewalks, almost plowing a few people over in my mad dash. I thrust open the heavy wooden door, my chest heaving and out of air.

"Inspector…Abberline!" I call breathlessly.

"Inspector Andrews! I was expecting you ages ago!"

"I'm sorry," I pant, "But I need…to tell you what was in that letter…and more importantly…what was in that parcel."

"There's no time for that now."

"Why?"

He looks at me gravely before replying solemnly, "The body of Mary Kelly was just found in Miller's Court."

"Two little whores, shivering with fright,

Seek a cozy door way in the middle of the night.

Jack's knife flashes, then there's but one

And the last one the ripest for Jack's idea for fun."

—Jack the Ripper

The Sixth Afternoon:

HEARTLESS

I sit on the crimson cushions of a dark wooden coach, pulled by two horses, black as the dead-space within the chest of this killer, with Abberline. We have been in the carriage roughly fifteen minutes; he hasn't said a word to me. Perhaps he does not fancy admitting defeat. I give him a smug look and ask, "So, tell me, what did you say about these things being 'forgotten in time'?"

"Oh, shut your filthy gob, Andrews. So you were right, and I was wrong. Don't bloody gloat about it," he retorts in a huff.

"Alright. I'll gloat about it in my bleedin' mind then." I told him this would happen, and he didn't listen. Now who's paying for it? Scotland Yard, that's who. I purposefully place a defiant and victorious smirk upon my face.

"Oh, come off it, Andrews." He turns his head away in disgust from me and stares coldly out the carriage window as we travel down the broken cobblestones of Commercial Street, stopping in front of the entrance to Miller's Court.

"So, any leads or theories," I ask mockingly.

"It might interest you to know that there is one new lead in this case and that all my inspectors aren't as incompetent as yourself, Andrews." he snaps. Sod it, not another theory. We have left the coach and are navigating the labyrinth of narrow streets, slowly pacing to the murder scene. We both stop dead in front of the entrance way to Miller's Court. A narrow brick archway leading into a dark alley stands before us like a gateway into a realm of shadows where souls are ripped from half-living bodies and skin is boiled off in the blazing heat of flames. I take a deep breath and rush through the narrow corridor, plunging myself into this unfamiliar blackness. "Watkins reported finding a grape stem by the corpse, just like how private detectives Grand and Batchelor found a grape stalk in the area where Elizabeth Stride was discovered on the twenty-second of October." Abberline hastens his pace to catch up with me.

"What are two whores doing with grapes?" I can't afford bloody grapes.

"Exactly. There's no way in hell a prostitute could ever afford grapes; they must have been given to them."

"So? Men give food to prostitutes all the time to entice them."

"Yes, that may be true, but they aren't normally murdered afterwards, are they? Our theory is that The Leather Apron offers them grapes first, something they can't resist wrapping their fingers around. Once he's lured them in, he waits until they are fooling around with their dresses…he waits until their hands are busy. Then he comes from behind and slits the women's throats."

"Hmm."

I knew what I thought about this bollucks theory from the first moment Abberline started to run his mouth about grapes. He pulled it out of his arse. It was probably some random arseholed sod who had been digging through a wealthy person's filth after his nightly trip to the pub and found a lone withered raisin left on a grape stem. The animal probably discarded it in the area a few hours prior to either of the two murders. Besides, how is a sodding grape stalk going to lead us to him? We might as well throw the bloody stem into a crowd and arrest whoever it lands nearest to as Jack the Ripper. This "theory" is complete rubbish.

"Thirteen Miller's Court: the scene of the crime," Abberline remarks, as we come to a halt in front of a broken-down wooden door in a far-off corner of a dark alleyway. Mary Kelly's room is of white, dirt-stained brick with two broken and cracked windows lining the wall. A long rusted drainpipe runs down the height of the building, barely clinging onto the structure on shabby tack-welds. The entrance is hidden in the shadows of another alleyway. I peer upward to see clotheslines strung from building to building in a tangled spider web of fraying twine and wire with the tattered blouses, petticoats, and trousers of the occupants' stained wardrobe. Police Chief Warren squeezes himself out of the room in order to keep the public, Abberline, or I from viewing what lay inside the bedchamber.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he greets us.

"Good afternoon, sir," we both reply.

"It's quite the scene in there, worse than we've ever had," he reports grimly.

"How do you think it was committed," questions Abberline immediately.

"Well, there is a broken window with a hole punched through it, and the cloth that had been blocking the gap was pushed out. My guess is that Jack the Ripper put his hand through this hole, unlocked the door that is an arm's length away, entered the room, and then proceeded to slaughter the poor girl."

"It sounds plausible," I remark.

Warren turns to the door, and before opening it, warns, "Gentlemen, what you are about to see will no doubt shock, disgust, and render you nauseous. However, I must ask that you keep a level head or remove yourself from the room so we can sort all of this out as quickly as possible." I ready my body and mind for what I am about to lay eyes upon. I slow my pounding heart and try to relax my breathing in order to keep my sanity. Abberline doesn't seem to be taking any precautions whatsoever to prepare himself to see the horror that lies in the room. His eyes are firmly fixed on the wooden door.

"I understand," answers Abberline blankly, speaking for both of us.

"Very well." He swings open the door to allow us in, and my vision is consumed by a flood of red. On the right wall next to the bed, there are splashes of blood that splatter out like an explosion of crimson paint, and a puddle of half-congealed, sticky liquid lies on the floor, covering at least 60 square centimeters. The bronze bed frame is speckled with blood. The metallic smell of iron mixed with the sickly-sweet odor of human decay assaults my nostrils.

My eyes finally come to rest on the body, and I grow sick, re-living my gruesome experience in the Golden Lane Morgue. "Jesus Christ…" I whisper in disbelief and horror.

She was left as a pile of cut and butchered flesh when he was done. Her mangled remains are unrecognizable with the exception of the long flowing mane of red hair sprouting from the remnants of her scalp, which has been mostly peeled back from her skull. This doesn't even look human. Her abdomen is hacked to pieces, and a concave hole is left in her left thigh where the muscle should be. Her legs are spread wide apart, and her fingers are clenched in a tight fist; she was struggling to scream, to free her body from its hellish prison. I see no sign of her breasts… that is until I move closer for a better look.

One of Mary's breasts rests beneath her head, the other, by her right foot, accompanied by other unidentifiable organs. I can't endure to look at the shredded remains of this woman any longer, for I feel I shall vomit if I stare for a fraction of a second more.

"Was the body in this condition prior to our arrival?" I ask Police Chief Warren.

"Not quite. In order to examine her for anything left behind, we removed the lone piece of clothing she was wearing at the time, her white chemise; well, it's not white anymore," Warren replies with a fleeting glance over to a table at the far end of the room. The blood-spattered and ripped chemise is draped across it. "Unfortunately, we were unable to find anything on her person."

"Were there any witnesses to this murder?"

"I spoke with her neighbors, and they reported hearing a solitary scream in the middle of the night at about four in the morning. They said they thought it was just another bangtail having a rough time with a customer, if you know what I mean."

"A rough time indeed," Abberline remarks while staring at the corpse. "Has a doctor been by yet to examine the wounds?"

"Yes, Dr. George Bagster Phillips is still present." He makes a quarter-turn to his right and addresses a tall, black-haired man in a deep grey suit, "Dr. Phillips, would you be so kind as to share your findings with Inspector Abberline and Inspector Andrews?"

"Certainly," he replies as he turns to us and reveals his face with a thin moustache resting upon his lip and deeply carved wrinkles under his eyes countless sleepless nights. The nose of this gentleman seems to be forever stuck in the air, maintaining a distasteful watch on the vermin below. The chain of his gold pocket-watch glimmers in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. "Gentlemen, it is quite clear that you both have been horrified by gazing upon this atrocious corpse, but you should hear this to help you along in your investigation, nevertheless."

"Could we possibly step outside to the back of the building so we can be somewhere private?" I inquire, not wanting to stay a minute more in the same proximity of the former Mary Kelly.

"Of course, Inspector Andrews. If you both would follow me..." He walks to the door of the bloodied room and opens it widely for us; the horrified screams and gasps from onlookers fill the air. We circle the cracked, filthy walls of the exterior of the building, stopping in front of the slightly opened back window of Mary Kelly's living quarters. The little bits of white paint left on the window panes are sloughing off, the glass murky with a brown tint of grime. After I make a fleeting glance at the sewage running freely down the street sides and grimace in disgust, we turn to face each other.

"What did your examination show, doctor?"

"Well, you gentlemen have seen what was generally done overall, but I shall get into a few interesting details, so to speak. When I examined her neck, I found an incision lining the entire circumference of her throat, deepening to the vertebrae and notching two of them quite badly. The victim has clearly bled to death from a severed carotid artery."

"As did all of the other Ripper victims," remarks Abberline: nothing new to him obviously.

"She is missing a number of her organs as well," he shifts his weight to another leg, crossing his arms uncomfortably. "We were able to identify her liver placed between her feet. Also, her uterus was discovered under her head with one of her breasts, along with her kidneys. Her intestines were placed on the right of her, the flaps removed from the abdomen and thighs on the wooden table." The doctor must sigh deeply to pull himself together.

God, who in their right mind would do this to a woman? The deceased aren't bloody pieces of meat waiting to be hacked up and sold. I don't care how bloody filthy this whore was or how she survived. Everyone is equal in death, wealthy or Unfortunate, and everyone deserves the same amount of respect after they have passed on. What was this killer thinking, butchering her like this?

She was a prostitute; she was something that could be bought. I swallow hard.

"Anything distinctive, Dr. Phillips?"

"Yes. When I examined what was left of her chest, the pericardium," he glances at me, irked by my incomprehension, "The sack around the heart, was opened…her heart was missing."

I feel the burning vomit bubbling up in the back of my throat. Who steals a human heart? "W-were you, um, able to locate it?"

"Regrettably, no. However, since we couldn't find it, it is necessary to assume the murderer took the organ, or he may have burned it on the fire. If this is so, we know he must have spent an extensive amount of time in her bedroom, for the heart is one of the most difficult organs to burn."

I visualize a man sitting by the fireplace in a black cloak covered in bloodstains, wearing a top hat, listening to the crackling and popping of Mary's heart in the flames as it disintegrates into nothing but ashes. I imagine him smugly overlooking her deformed corpse, making certain of the twisted "design" he had carved into Kelly's flesh. Jack the Ripper doesn't deserve to be simply jailed; he deserves a lifetime in a straight-jacket for God's sake. Of course, how could he be locked up now? We may have leads, but if the case was solved now, no one would believe it.

"Thank you, doctor. I think we shall learn more when the details from her autopsy come in," the chief inspector replies.

"Good luck, inspectors. I do hope Scotland Yard catches this fiend soon."

"Good day, doctor." Abberline and I circle the building once more and exit the alleyway, the sweet warmth of the mid-day sun gracing our faces seemingly for the first time in hours. We proceed to climb into the coach and speed off back to the police station to review the reports on Mary Kelly's murder.

I sit hunched over in my leather chair, surrounded by scattered pieces of crumpled and ripped papers of farfetched suspect accusations. I am reviewing the autopsy records on Martha Tabram, Mary Anne Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Kelly. The devilish six have been committed. So, is this all going to come to a sudden stop, or will we have to pursue Jack the Ripper to the end of our days? Blimey, I don't even want to think of the copy-cat killings that are bound to happen if this is ever all said and done. I read the articles over and over again, rifling madly through the papers when I cut my index finger from tip to knuckle. A chain of crimson pearls drips from my finger, one glimmering bead at a time, shining in the light of my fireplace. "Oh bleedin' piss," I curse while sucking the excess blood from my finger. I continue my desperate brainstorm to no prevail, for the only similarities I can distinguish between the victims are slit throats and missing organs. There is no noticeable modus operandi.

I meticulously study a ripped and stained map marked with the locations of the six murders in the Whitechapel District, hoping somehow to sift a deeply hidden clue from the black smudged ink. Jesus. All of them have been within two kilometers of the East End and the City of London, and we still didn't manage to catch the blighter. Scotland Yard's miserable failure thus far surely will not be spawning support for the metropolitan police force…

…My mind fights with all its might not to drift off to sleep. I retrieve my pocket watch on its golden chain, the ancient timepiece mockingly ticking at me, as I glance at the time; it's 3:14 in the bloody morning. I groan with despair and exhaustion, for I lack, after five hours of report analysis, even a glimpse of a new aspect to add to this hopeless case. Abberline's going to have my head tomorrow. He's always expecting something out of us each day, whether it is another suspect or more theories. My head begins to slide down to my chest, yet I yank it up to its normal position again in a struggle to avoid my reoccurring dream. I stare blankly at the yellowed wallpaper lining the brick fireplace of my untidy, sad excuse of a flat, knowing I am not conscious enough to think clearly, let alone remember anything my imagination conjures up. My mind and eyes are soon lost in the gentle warm flickering yellow flame, and I can't help but to shut my eyelids and doze off...

This isn't my nightmare.

I peer over the shoulder of a cloaked man, who seems to be writing a cryptic message, completely unaware of my presence. My vision is like a horse wearing blinders, forcing me to focus on the individual sitting behind the desk. The room is poorly lit, the only light emanating from a dim candle flame wavering in the air rushing in from the nearby window. Suddenly, the point of view in my dream leaves my body, allowing me to blurrily view this stately home with grotesque portraits of individuals with huge growths sprouting from limbs, noses missing, or faces deformed beyond recognition. The paintings are mounted in elegant golden frames of varying sizes on the red painted walls. I am barely able to make out the silhouettes of shelves lining the shadowy room with books squeezed tightly in the minimal space they have to stand up. A wooden coat rack stands empty of any items of clothing, not a jacket nor a hat, for he is wearing all of it. His desk is a dark monstrous piece of furniture, his chair of black leather. He delicately lifts his dark pen and dips it into a jar of crimson ink. Carefully placing the pen on the bit of parchment, he slowly writes a single character.

1...The photograph of the body of Martha Tabram, dripping with blood, flashes before my eyes.

He dabs the pen back into the ink, almost ritualistically. 2…I see the corpse of Mary Anne Nichols; her eyes are being pecked out by hungry ravens. Monstrous grey rats thirstily lick up the pool of blood around her head.

3…Annie Chapman.

4…Elizabeth Stride.

5…Catherine Eddowes. The image of her left kidney floating in red wine in the small box in George Lusk's home materializes in my vision.

6…Mary Kelly. She's skinned, half-alive, writhing in pain, and screaming in agony as a swarm of black horseflies feasts on her dying raw flesh. She drags her body across the splintering wooden floors, her knees, wrists, and palms leaking blood. She collapses on her mattress, and with her last convulsion, her intestines spill out of her body, splashing in a pool of blood at the foot of her bed.

I blink, and in a flash of scarlet, I am transported to the haunting alleyway setting of my nightmare.

I peer at the full pale moon in the sky. A cat meows and a couple begins to argue in the street, adding to the dull murmur of livestock and accordion music emanating from the many pubs. I see him approaching me through the thick green haze. It appears to be the hundredth time I ask him what pleasure I may give to him. Of course, he offers me money, food, and drink, and I, almost involuntarily, quickly accept without a moment's hesitation. We amble further down the alleyway, pacing back and forth along the width of the space between the two decaying buildings; my arm is linked in his. The lane is deserted except for him and me, and as I gaze into the twinkling stars, the familiar sight of clotheslines strung from one building to another greets my eyes. I slowly lower my gaze to look at the profile of my disguised customer who is concealed in the shadows.

All of a sudden the dark clouds, hiding the bright moon, part for a moment, revealing the square jaw dotted with stubble of my gentleman. This is the first time I have ever seen part of his face, and a sudden surge of curiosity and excitement pulses through me like the frantic beating of a human heart. However, as soon as I steal a peek at part of his shadowy visage, the clouds shield the moon's light for a second time, blinding me once again.

I am literally within five feet of my death. However, I don't run; I need the god-damned money for alcohol. As expected, I am startled when he pulls me close again, his arm firm across my chest, and whispers piercingly in my ear, "Come now, lovey. I can't wait any longer." It's a death sentence. I can see his arm searching for the blade in his long black overcoat, and I struggle inside to escape his grasp, fully aware of what is to take place within the next thirty seconds. I am trapped in a shell, desperately fighting to flee my impending danger, but forever locked in the confines of my female body. Get out of there, you stupid twit! I don't budge.

He finds his weapon and holds it slightly out to the right, the metal glinting brightly in the light bleeding into the alley from the adjacent street. With one swift movement, the moment I am dreading arrives. He slashes my throat from left to right, and the blood gushes out of my veins, spraying on the flyer-papered wall opposite him as the excruciating pain returns to my neck. "Glurglur-bl-st-st-gl."

Please God, someone help me.

He turns to me as I slide down the rusted corrugated steel wall of the adjacent building, frozen in the shock of death. I have lived much longer this time. He holds his knife aloft, as if to increase the suspense before delivering the final slash before butchering my half-dead body.

The knife is descending violently, but time seems to slow in that very moment. The clouds break away once again, and a beam of brilliant silver moonlight shines upon my killer's face. In my last moments of life, as I take my last soggy breath, as my entire body begins to spasm, and as I feel the death grip of Hell's demons' hands upon my fragile white skin, I gaze upon my killer's malicious face with shocked horrified eyes...

Abberline.

"One day, men will look back and say I gave birth to the twentieth century."

—Jack the Ripper

The Seventh Dawn:

THE ASYLUM

When I was but a young lad, I had troubles with the terrors a young mind could devise in the dead of night. I would often wake screaming in horror only to hear footsteps rapidly nearing my bedroom, followed by my mother's gentle face peering through the doorway. Smiling kindly, she would walk across my bedroom to sit on the mattress beside me. She would stroke my hair as I laid my head in her lap, and told me that nothing I ever dreamed, no matter how real it seemed, could ever harm me. She would calmly console me, "My dear boy, in dreams, you can swim in the deepest ocean or fly to the farthest star. Instead of allowing your mind sow the seeds of fear within you, use it to fulfill your wildest fantasies."

Abberline is Jack the Ripper. How was I so blind? Of course he's the killer! It's the perfect crime! I groan in disgust. Why didn't I see it before?! The "From Hell" letter wasn't delivered until two weeks after because Jack the Ripper could work at his leisure leaking clues out to the police, and Abberline looked like he was attempting to conceal a bleedin' rod shoved up his arse when speaking to Dr. Phillips because he didn't want to blow his cover! Bloody sod! Abberline demands new theories and suspects each day so he can send the police force on a wild goose chase. We pursue an individual who has nothing to do with the bloody murders, and Abberline commits the crimes with our backs turned! He thought no one would ever find him out…But I did. I solved the Jack the Ripper case.

I toss around restlessly in my sleep, the image of Abberline's malicious face and insane yellow-toothed grin flashing before my eyes. How could a man whose profession is protecting people possibly turn to killing them? Did he decide this on a bloody whim? Or did he actually have a reason for it? Perhaps he snapped…

"Or maybe it is simply me who has lost his mind," I reason with myself.

No…You couldn't have. You saw his face.

"It's probably just a strange coincidence."

It can't be a coincidence. You know what you saw, and you know you're right.

"I can't be right! It was only a dream! Only a dream!"

A dream that revealed the truth, inspector.

"Stop it! It's not true!" I yell out in frustration.

Of course it's true.

"It's not…I, I won't believe you! It's just a coincidence!"

Coincidence? I think not…You've discovered all the signs, Andrews. Abberline IS Jack the Ripper!

"NO!" I grab a hold of my head and scream out in pain as I rip out a large clump of brown hair from my scalp, a few strands landing on my bare shoulders. It's begun. My back arches, my hands clench the white sheets, and I begin to thrash about on my mattress as an emotional and mental war ensues between my body and mind. I claw at my skin, creating deep red scratches on my chest, only worsening the pain, twisting the sheets into knots and trapping my legs in a maze of cloth. I feel the warm sensation of blood snaking along the contours of my body and down my sides. I hurl one of the pillows across the room as I attempt to escape images of the six bodies continually appearing in my mind. I struggle desperately to silence the voice my subconscious has been battling against for the last hour. I rock my body rapidly back and forth on my bed while more voices stream into my ears.

"Wha'll it be tonigh', sir?"

"Red, red, red..."

"Abberline is Jack the Ripper!"

"Come now, lovey. I can't wait any longer…"

"What does one do with a woman's kidney?"

"Any new theories, gentlemen?"

"The heart is one of the most difficult organs to burn…"

"First falls one, two, three, and then there's four. Hide, ye mothers; Old Jack's knocking at your door…"

"1…Martha Tabram. 2…Annie Chapman. 3…Mary Ann Nichols. 4…Elizabeth Stride…"

"Catch me when you can, Mister Lusk."

"How can they stop me now, inspector?"

I am hearing the voices of at least eight different people, mixing and morphing together into a loud incomprehensible roar. As soon as I hear the slightest bit of what one has to say, it is immediately interrupted by another competing to have the same attention. They may have different thoughts to express, but one belief is common between all of them: Abberline is Jack the uproar shreds my mind, preventing my own thoughts from processing, forcing me to bear them all in the imaginary tight restraints of my body. The hollering is pounding on my forehead with every word uttered, and I feel as if my brain might slide out my ear if I don't put a stop to this abuse.

I plug my ears with both fingers; the voices still scream their message. I press a pillow against my head and bury my face into the mattress, but they continue. I try stuffing cotton in my ears, switching on my record player, and doing everything physically possible to make them cease. Yet they persist, driving their thoughts farther and farther, deeper and deeper into my mind with each passing second. I roll violently around on my blankets, desperately struggling to flee the ever-growing noise. Ultimately, I am paralyzed from the chaotic buzzing vibrating my mind, unable to move from this torture chamber of the psyche, my chest heaving up and down from my immense mental exertion. I unwillingly fall asleep, knowing my conscience will accept these thoughts as my own. The unnamed voices continue shouting into the dead of night.

I ignite a match, lighting the oil lamp sitting on my antique wooden nightstand. I turn my golden pocket watch to face me, as I had discarded it on a pile of scattered police reports the night before. Its casing, protecting the face and hands of the clock, has lost its golden sheen in places and, in all reality, looks like a piece of garbage when compared to its new former self. Yet what more is time than stinking filth, rotting away our lives, spawning nothing but suffering? The hands on the timepiece read 6 o'clock in the morning. I peel my sticky, blood-coated chest from the sheets and throw my legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the sore throbbing spot on my head. I seem to have pulled out a fairly decent patch of hair. Turning my head numbly, I spy my blood-stained white sheets and blink absentmindedly. I wipe my face with my palms, breathing through the stinging pain emanating from my chest, and come to my senses.

"Alright, Andrews, the time has come to end Old Jack's bit of killing time." I attempt to rise off the mattress, but my legs remain trapped in the tangled sheets, and I trip and topple to the floor face-first, landing hard on my knees. I pull myself upright again, and with a frustrated grunt, I tear off the twisted white fabric from my limbs. Once more, I rise to my feet and begin to pace to the other side of the room when I stumble again. I catch myself on my chestnut dresser, and heave myself up for the third time, the sharp corner almost piercing the skin of my palm. Ripping out the drawer, I retrieve my police uniform, dressing in a hurry. My hair remains tousled and matted with blood, uncovered by the police cap I unconsciously leave behind. The buttons of my uniform are misaligned; anyone would mistake me for an Unfortunate, but it's the least of my worries.

I heave open the heavy wooden door to the police station to hear Abberline questioning the other officers, "Any new theories, gentlemen?" I stalk into the room with a wild blazing gleam in my eyes, breathing heavily and longing to assuage my thirst for justice. I am ready to attack the criminal at any second, the impulse to hurl myself upon him nearly leaping out of my body.

At the top of my lungs, I bellow, "Arrest this man! He is guilty of committing six homicides in the Whitechapel District of London!"

The officers, not noticing my entrance into the room, turn and look me up and down with a bit of a chuckle at my bizarre appearance. A young officer with a blonde mustache laughs and jokingly questions, "Who? Chief Inspector Abberline?"

"Yes!" I shout, extremely frustrated. "Clap him in irons!"

I am answered with a loud snicker from the investigators. "Oh yeah, and maybe we should go and arrest the Queen while we're at it!"

"I think he's had a sip too many, if you know what I mean."

"Well, I think the case has gotten to Inspector Andrews' head, I think," says another one with a snort. "He's gone loony!"

"What's wrong with you all?!" Exasperated, I point at Abberline, who is furling his brow in a guise of confusion. He attempts to hide his face: it's a mask no doubt. "Abberline is Jack the Ripper!" The rest of the police force erupts in laughter.

Immediately at the first sign of any disruption in the precinct, Police Chief Warren rushes to my side, grabs me by the arm, and shoves me around to face him. He scolds me under his breath, "What the bloody hell are you doing, Andrews? Can't you see this force is under enough pressure as it is? The last thing we need is an inspector making a bloody mockery of this case! Now, bloody go home and pull yourself together, man!" A few drops of his spit land on my cheek.

Why won't anyone believe me? My logic is perfect! I wipe off the unwelcome moisture from my face and question angrily, "You think I'm making a joke?"I rip my arm from Chief Warren's tight grip and rapidly advance toward Abberline, replying angrily back to him, "So be it!" With a cry, I throw myself onto Abberline, with my hands around his neck, hoping I might be able to kill him for the crimes he has committed. I bash his head repeatedly against the wooden floor, further tightening my hold on the killer as he begins to flail from the lack of oxygen, fighting to pry my fingers from his throat.

Two patrolmen wrench me off of his body and restrain me on either side. I hear Warren's voice ordering two inspectors, "Call for a coach to a lunatic asylum this instant."

"Which one, sir?"

"Any one. Just get him the hell out of this police station."

As soon as this is uttered, the two officers, inspectors Spratling and Harvey, march over to me and bind me in handcuffs. The two drag me out of the police office to the sidewalk where a coach is ready with another officer driving it. They thrust me into the carriage, and both climb in, sternly informing me of their task to keep a close eye on me. I take an anxious glance out the window to spy Abberline passing by and climbing up to sit with the driver. "What the hell is he doing here?! He's the bloody killer! Arrest him! Arrest him!"

"Shut up, Andrews. Spratling may be above brute force, but I have nothing against giving an unruly arrestee a good bash on the head," Harvey retorts.

I ignore him. "You believe me, Spratling, don't you?" He gives me a nervous glance and immediately drops his gaze to the floor.

"I asked you a question, Spratling."

"Alright, I warned you!" Harvey pulls out a length of yellowed cloth from his uniform and ties it around my mouth before I kick him firmly in the groin; Harvey buckles over in agony. "Sod you, you sodding manky bloody cur! I hope they bloody well lock you up forever, you poxy git! "

"Wmh rw hoo?!" What's wrong with you?! "Mbline ih jah uh uimr!" Abberline is Jack the Ripper! Realizing I will never get my thoughts clearly across, I am forced to remain silent for the rest of the journey. I am clueless as to my destination or what fate lies ahead of me.

I am rudely awoken from my dream, my imaginary murder, to hear Harvey's voice commanding me to "get out of the sodding coach." Still drowsy from my sleep, I am slow to comply, and the impatient officer yanks me out of the carriage by my right arm; my shoulder throbs in pain. The cloth around my mouth is untied, and I spit the sickly sweet taste of human sweat and dirt from my palette. "Where are we?"

"You can still read, Andrews. Look at the bloody building," Harvey retorts.

He roughly thrusts me around to face the structure. It stands monstrous and threatening, the appearance of a jail. It is surrounded by flourishing emerald trees, a peaceful place, but the building itself is like a sharp razor cutting through the serenity of the greenery. The edifice is made with red brick, and the metal doors at the entrance caution whoever's going in that they will never be coming out. My gaze travels along the gargantuan dirtied white granite walls of this place, up the towering archway until they come to rest on the letters engraved on the graying stones, reading "Hanwell Asylum for the Mentally Insane." The moment I lay eyes upon this, I turn to the officers and scream, "I'm not insane!" I gesture to Abberline. "He's the one who's bonkers! Put him in there!"

"We beg to differ," answers Spratling quietly, speaking for the first time since the departure from Scotland Yard. I give him a fleeting glance, betrayed by a fellow law enforcer.

"He's right, inspector," says Abberline smugly, "You're going to be staying here for a while. Perhaps they can help you at this place."

"Help me?! The only way they could possibly aid me is by arresting you," I growl.

"Oh, stop your sniveling. You're here and you can't do anything about it," Harvey snaps.

"Stop? How could I stop?! Not only did you drag me off to a mental institution, but you took me to one for nutty prostitutes!"

"Yes, quite fitting for this whole 'Jack the Ripper' situation, isn't it?" Abberline replies with a smirk.

Just as I begin to open my mouth to scream at Abberline, I hear a far-off voice asking, "Is this him?" I glance to my right and see a couple of attendants in starched white uniforms approaching our coach.

"Yes. Could you kindly get him in there?" Harvey questions impatiently.

They arrive and grip me firmly by the arms. "Come with us," one of them demands.

There is no escape. No hope of ever fleeing…I start to flail, screaming, "Get off of me! He's the crazy one! Take him! Get your hands off of me, you gormless sodding curs! Abberline is Jack the Ripper! Jack the Ripper!"

I am dragged down a sterile corridor, much resembling the Golden Lane Morgue, lined with doors fashioned with barred windows. I peer inside a few of them to see the glazed eyes and nervous convulsions of some of the asylum's prisoners. A man paces the no more than three-meter length of his chamber anxiously back and forth. Another sits in a daze, with stained tattered rags barely clinging to his body, his arms limp at his sides. One woman seems to be off in another world, sitting in a corner and gazing mindlessly out of her window. I can see the rooms, prison cells in all actuality, are stripped bare of everything but a thin mat and a filthy chamber pot thrown in a dark corner, covered in dirt and stains. There is one lonely barred window affixed to the wall of each chamber where one might look out to gaze briefly at a past life, aware of the impossibility of return.

The attendants fling me into the room; I land on my back and cry out in agony. Both of them stuff me into a straightjacket as I thrash violently about in a last-ditch effort to make an impossible escape from this asylum. Through my shouting, I hear one of the attendants shouting, "Get me some bloody paraldehyde!" Before I know it, the taller of the two stabs a thick hypodermic needle into my forearm: sedative. Once the attendants know I am restrained, they allow Harvey, Spratling, and Abberline into the room.

The shorter of the two turns to them and says, "If you'd like to say anything to him before you leave, now's the time to do it. We'll be down the hall when you're ready to bolt the door."

Spratling paces quietly into my cell with his eyes averted from my face. "You were a good inspector, Andrews. I don't know what happened to you," he says solemnly, as he turns about and leaves.

Harvey scoffs over his shoulder at his partner's comment. "You had it coming, Andrews. We all knew something was wrong with you." The officer exits my chamber after spitting in my face.

Abberline approaches me and smiles vengefully. "Why did you do it? Why did you send me here, Abberline?!" I interrogate him angrily.

He breathes into my ear slyly, "Ah, inspector, I thought you were more intelligent than that. I couldn't risk having you around. Too much of a chance of being revealed."

I was right. "You belong in here, you monster," I growl under my breath.

He laughs quietly in a wicked merciless tone before whispering to me in a maniacal snigger, "How can they stop me now, inspector?"

He turns briskly and walks out. As I hastily stand myself up and rush to the door, it is slammed shut in my face. I yell out of the window at the top of my lungs, "Get back here! Abberline IS Jack the Ripper! He's the killer! COME BACK!" I'm trapped. I dizzily fall to the floor as the sedatives begin to take their effect. I writhe silently in grief, misunderstanding, and confusion, all wrapped up in an inescapable blanket of betrayal. He was the killer…he butchered those women…and he tricked nearly all of us.

The doctors are outside my room. I hear them talking quietly to each other. "Are you sure this needs to be done? We're talking about a major leap here, an experimental treatment."

"Absolutely. I feel that the patient will benefit greatly from the procedure."

"That's fine then, as long as you're sure. I'll schedule him in for this afternoon."

A male attendant unlocks the steel door to my cell. The bitter stench of the asylum blows sickly into my face. "What do you want?" I ask him dazed.

"It's time for your procedure."

"What?" I am unable to force the rest of the words out of my mouth. The attendant grabs me and lays me down on a stretcher. He latches hard restraints on me tightly. I feel I am losing the circulation of blood to my ankles and wrists. I can only move my head. "What's going on? Where are you taking me?" I mumble.

"It would do you best to be quiet. We wouldn't want to sew your ears to the mat, now would we?"

I am wheeled into a room with blinding white tile walls. The strange faces of men peer down upon me. A hushed murmur fills the room. I hear something about "frontal lobe detachment" through my murky hearing. The doctor places a white mask over my mouth. Get it off me… The physician removes a syringe full of a strange clear liquid from the operating tray. He hovers it above my mask in his hand. He pushes down the plunger with his thumb. Don't put that on there. I don't need this. My eyes close…my world turns black.

I open my eyes from my operation to the stripes of light streaming in from my barricaded window, but all I see is—

"Red, red, red."

Sources

Cornwell, Patricia. Portrait of a Killer- Jack the Ripper: Case Closed. New York City: Putnam Adult, 2002.

"Enter the World of Jack the Ripper…." . March 5, 2008.

From Hell. Dirs. Albert Hughes, Allen Hughes. Perfs. Johnny Depp, Heather Graham, Ian Holm. Film. Twentieth Century-Fox Film Corporation, 2001.

"Hanwell Asylum." Wikipedia. March 5, 2008. wiki/Hanwell_Asylum

"The Hunt for Jack the Ripper." History's Mysteries. History Channel. 30 Oct. 2008.

"Jack the Ripper." Wikipedia. March 5, 2008. wiki/Jack_the_Ripper

"The Jack the Ripper Autopsy Reports." . March 5, 2008.

Johno and Ryder, Steven. "Casebook: Jack the Ripper." March 5, 2008.