Butchering in Whitechapel-

That day back then, I didn't tremble. I didn't cry. The carved up body of a prostitute didn't scare me. It inspired me. "Whitechapel Murderer!" all the pages screamed in those days. I wonder what happened to the man. "Jack the Ripper". He was a pleasent fellow in my opinion, we often chattered to each other in the mornings, and my daily conversations with him took my mind off of the rats scurrying past the hem of my dress. And even after I saw him murdering her that one night, soft glow of a streetlamp making the blood glisten, I made small talk the next day. It was different though. Admiration formed a haze in my head when I saw him. No, not fear as any self respecting woman would be filled with. Because that night, I realised, I was not self respecting. As I lay in bed after the event... I smiled. And I slept contently. And I made a descision that I wanted to do the same. Butcher the women as if they were cows, their meat only for my pleasure.

I never said a word to the man about his hobby. I think he knew I saw him that night anyway, as he plunged the knife into her. He trusted me not to tell. And I haven't. I don't plan to either. I want the Whitechapel Murderer to be locked in history, known for many many years to come. And I would like the same for myself. I want my thirteen butcherings to be known someday, for generations to come. I want them to know about the puddles of blood on the ground, pooling around my victims. I want them to know about the terrified looks on thier faces as they died. I want them to know that there is someone out there that could take your life.