Creative Writing: Jack The Ripper

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Walking across a dark alley in the dead center of East London, I frequently see prostitutes flaunting themselves towards simple-minded men. My urge for a vengeance massacre has never escalated to this peak, as I have killed four prostitutes in the past few days. These four killings are just the beginning of the finest murderer in East London. My identity remains unknown, but I call myself Jack the Ripper. This uttermost hatred for prostitutes evoked when I was a teenager. My selfish father tore my family apart for nothing more than a piece of dirt, by the name of Mary Jones. Mary Jones, found frequently on the corners of streets, the well-known tramp around the hood of London was found flaunting in my home. One night, my mom and I came home …show more content…

“Sure, but this will have to cost you,” she stated. “Okay, lets make this a night you will remember,” I say as I chuckle in my mind. As we walk though town we exchange small talk. “That bracelet is eye-catching!” I exclaimed acting as if it was pretty. I remember that bracelet, slung around her thin wrist, from that very night she decided to tear my family to shreds. “Thanks, it was my Grandma’s. She left it on her death bed,” she mumbled under her breath. I almost felt bad, then I realized she was the reason why I am the sick-minded person I am today. We pull along my countryside estate and walk along the rock path leading to my home. As she steps foot into my home, I lock the door behind her. She gazes in awe as she admires my belongings. “Lets go upstairs.” The impatience of the revenge consumes my words. As she walks into my bedroom, she makes herself comfortable on the edge of my bed. I grab her forcefully and tie her to the plastic chair that was placed strategically between the end of the bed and the wall. “What are you doing?” She screamed at the top of her lungs. Acknowledging her comment, I look her directly in the …show more content…

He also finds Mary’s trademark softly placed on the ashes, her gold bracelet. “You tore apart our family into pieces and never bothered to pick them up!” I screech through the bitterness in my voice. I reach for my knife. “Son, don’t!” Father cries. I quickly raise my knife above my head, thinking of all the things this man has put me through. I jab the knife into his heart and twist my wrist in every which way. His lifeless body droops to an irregular state. The feeling of accomplishment empowers me. My father’s dead body and Mary’s dead ashes lay before me making me realize my mission is complete. Not to brag or anything, but covering these murders up was simple. The cops had no evidence of the crime scene and no witnesses even dared to croak a word. I continue to stay in London to see all the action and hype from my great work. Till this day, the younger generation of murderers honor my best work of committing six murders in a few short days. Even after the murders I have committed, it will never fill the whole in my heart. The twisted, love struck couple molded the fire within me and consequently for the people of London, will never die. The mystery behind Jack the Ripper will never

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