Leather Apron

London. 1888.

The town of London was known as a utopia for many across the world. The centre of a growing empire. Tales of golden pavements and roads were commonplace. In truth, the cobbled pavements and roads were no golder than a blacksmith’s gloves. Many of these roads led to dark alleys and streets which were lined with pubs and bars filled with shady characters. One of these streets was a host to one of the most notorious killers to ever live.

It was about 5 am. A man was standing in the dark just behind backyard.

He was tired and angry. He was poor. Barely enough money to feed him for a month or so. Insomnia ravaged his mind and depression tore at his heart. For the past month, he’d been demanding money from the many prostitutes that infested the streets. He had eeked out a living by threatening and abusing the pub owners to give him their well-earned money. But that still wasn’t enough. He needed more. An urge drove him to do it.

So he did the deed. The man was educated enough in surgery. He was handy with a knife. It was simple really, slicing the woman’s stomach open and dismembering her innards.

His victim lay in front of him in a pool of her own blood. Annie Chapman used to be her name. The killer wasn’t sorry at all. She knew the terms and conditions of their agreement so she should have saw this coming. But no, she had to scream and flail while I carried out my part of it. Can’t people just die in silence?, thought he.

This was his second victim so far. Why did he do it? He didn’t know. What he did know was that he liked it. He enjoyed watching people scream and collapse as their vital organs spilled out to decorate the pavements. He also knew that he needn’t worry anymore about money. Money could only buy a person bread or a place to stay. He knew it well enough that just food and wealth wouldn’t quench his thirst for he craved something else: Life. Or rather, the removal of it. The only thing that could fuel him was a taste for blood.

That day, this man finally realised what kept him alive. That day, his heart stopped pumping blood and instead burned with fire. His blood-stained hands grew cold and his eyes lost all emotion. That day, an icicle froze through his lungs and mind, puncturing all empathy he ever had. A crooked smile colder than the Arctic filled his pale face.

He thought of new strategies. He could frame it on someone else. He could terrorise the streets of London and tear its citizens apart. He would be known as a Ripper.

The killer lay down his signature clothing beside his second victim. He would change today.

He was leather apron no more.

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