WhiteChapel

Prologue: The Whore

Destitution, beggary, whoredom, and villainy are the only things to flourish and is all that awaits anyone foolish enough to enter the eastern portion of London. The district known as, Whitechapel. The man is one such person what some would call brave, but he had the intent of what some would call villainy. It's a chilly autumn night August 31, 1888, a man dressed in a dark cloak and top hat strolled the harshly lit streets of whitechapel. Coming upon a woman scantily dressed in corset, bloomers, and under skirt. The whore was selling her wares in a foul mouthed slightly aggressive manner as she beckoned the dark man towards her.

I nodded slightly more to myself than to her and held out my arm. She took it and quietly, I led her down the street towards an alley. I held up a bullseye lantern, that I had been holding under my cloak, as we zigzagged through the many alleys of the Whitechapel district.

“Do you know where you're going, Mr...?” The whore asked.

“Yes.” I said confidently in a rich smooth voice as a small smirk came upon my features. Stopping in a secluded spot she stepped in close and started undoing the clasp that held my cloak.

“My name is Lizzie...what do I call you?” She said in a cockney accent.

A malicious smile tugged at my face “You may call me Jack.”

I grabbed her hand and spun her, arms crossed over her chest, flush again me as she squealed in surprise. Letting go of one of her wrists and placing it in my other hand. I reached up and brushed her hair from her neck as I lowered my hand withdrawing blade from beneath my cloak, I turned it in my hand feeling the familiar weight and the grooves where my fingers rested perfectly on the hilt. 

She was defenseless paying no attention in one vicious, swift, movement I brought the cold blade up to her pale throat drawing it over the thin delicate flesh drawing scarlet red, like a paintbrush depositing a brilliant ruby colour on a pure white canvas. She gasped stepping out of my grasp turning to look at me as her hands fluttered, panicked, to her throat. Blood pouring from the gash, her eyes frantic, thin delicate pink lips moving as if to say something but only incoherent gurgling could be heard as she spit up blood.

She fell back twitching onto the ground blood pouring out onto the cold cobblestone like water in a stream. Then when she had finally stopped I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, a gasp of pleasure if you may. A malicious smile once again graced my lips as I removed my top hat running a hand through my dark hair. I knelt placing the hat beside me and pulling a piece of cloth over my face, now for my favorite part.

Slowly, meticulously, I cut the fabric off the whore’s warm body exposing her torso. I cut the corpse open from throat to navel. Removed the heart and after moving her arm next to her head placed it in her hand. I looked down at my hands covered in the warm steaming blood and chuckled. Looking into the whore's dead glassy eyes I reached for a piece of fabric about to wipe my hands of the red paint of blood that dripped from my hands and knife.

That’s when I heard the shuffle of feet
and a small voice behind me…