He's done it again, crafty Jack, murdering his victims in such brutal ways. He's evaded the authorities. He's gotten away. He always knows exactly what he's doing; in his life, it's kill or be killed, and he sure doesn't want to be killed. He knows his way around the detectives. He knows how to play with them. He knows how to trick them, make them run in circles until they can't stop, drive them to the brink of insanity. He knows exactly what to do in every murder, and now he's almost certain he can get away with anything.
He's just gotten away with another murder. Her name he did not care to remember. It was his nature not to care about what happened to these people after they were gone. They were like pesky little flies, and once they were dead, he couldn't care less. His way of thinking is unorthodox, but he didn't care. He did what had to be done.
She had been just like a fly to him. Pining for him, needing him. He didn't need to be bothered by this woman, so he simply lured her to her death. Stupid women, he would think. She knew it was wrong to follow him. He clearly looked deranged, or so he thought in his mind. To any other, he was an extremely handsome man, one that could get out of nearly anything with just a stare, a stare from his dark, chocolate brown eyes. If looks could kill, his would.
He was a cold killer, and no one would suspect a thing. His own insanity drove him, it drove him to be what he was. The killing was his sport. He'd hunt down his prey and play with it until he was bored. That is, unless it was just like his most recent kill, pining for him, following him like a lost puppy. The truth was, he could've just sent her away; rejection from him was a crushing blow in this area, but he couldn't just let such an easy murder slip between his hands. He craved it. He craved to feel the knife in his hands as he slit the woman's throat. He craved to feel her go limp in his arms. He craved and craved. In truth, he was the one pining for the women, but not in the way one would think. He was pining for her death.
He had left her body in the simple alleyway. He'd left her to rot. He left her to sit and decompose. Her body was to be food for the crows. Something about this pleased him. He felt content. He wasn't feeling pain, or regret. He felt fulfilled. He felt right, normal, perfect in every single way. One could not simply just describe the delight he was feeling. He had pride in his chest, and it was swelling up, ready to make him explode. He, of course, wouldn't let that happen, but just the mere knowledge that this could make him feel empowered. He could make himself feel better, he could make himself not feel the pain he felt long before he started his tirade of murders, he could be whole again. He could be the perfect human.
To put it simply, he felt normal. His insanity was not harming him. He felt like a human, not like an object. He was one with the earth he walked on. Being calm like this was a feeling he wasn't too familiar with, but he wasn't complaining. If he could feel like this all the time, he wouldn't have to murder them. That is the sad thing though. He didn't feel like this all the time. He only felt this way after he had done the deed. In the end, it didn't matter to him that what he was doing was "wrong". He was truly beginning to like the person he was becoming.
I wrote this while ignoring the fact that I had finals to do. I'm not a good example.
Anyway, I've officially started writing a book called He's The Ripper; it's about, as you can more than likely guess, Jack The Ripper.
This work is in no means any good. It's really just a little piece that I was messing around with while trying to get a feel for how I wanted to write Jack.
Thank you for reading.