The Urge to Confess ~ the diary of Jack the Ripper

[JACK THE RIPPER]

DON'T MIND ME GIVING THE TRADE A NAME

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They say that the urge to confess is a cop's greatest friend. I, personally, refuse to allow them that advantage, no matter what sort of urges I feel.

I believe that the phrase applies more or less to those who feel remorse for their actions. I don't. But I do, occasionally, feel the need to tell someone what I've done. Like an excited child showing its mother an art project- though most wouldn't call what I do art. I call them... uncultured. Uncultured in the ways of my humanity, and a pitiful humanity it is indeed, finding no one who shares my unorthodox- and might I add, completely correct- views. But more on that later.

I thought very briefly- and by briefly, I mean for a fraction of a second- about typing this little log. That would be stupid. Writing is much easier for me to keep track of, and easier to burn hastily. And so here I am, a virgin with this sort of practice, this diary... or log, if you will. Writing never soothed me, only opened my eyes to how restless I truly am upon rereading. But that was years ago that I tried writing, far before Tara my enlightenment.

My, it seems it's also opened my eyes to how wordy I am! And this little inner page, not even part of the diary! I'll spare you for now.

Yours truly,
Jack the Ripper

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[JACK THE RIPPER]

July 4, 2011

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I hate them.

I seem to look down at them from a whole separate plane of existence, and I have found that that place, though painfully empty, is far more tolerable than what is happening down there.

Fireworks. I hate. Fireworks.

Because I'm so sure that the men who founded this godforsaken country meant for it to be blown up by any beer-bellied yahoo with little brains and far too much time on his hands. It never stops; for the past three days, it's been an unforgiving cycle of bangs and pops, followed by the sound of emergency sirens. I suppose I'll take what little comfort I can get in the fact that some have probably hurt themselves in the process.

Then, of course, there are the official fireworks, which are meant to happen tonight. It works out so perfectly, you see, because just two days ago, Mayor Tormei received and promptly ignored my requests. I'd been expecting that. We're overdue for another body, anyhow, and tonight, there will be nothing but a security camera or two in my way. They'll all be gawking at the pretty lights instead of thinking to watch for me... besides, I've been observing City Hall all day, and it doesn't appear that he's at all concerned. No guards.

It's been a year and they haven't caught Mayor Tormei will soon realize that I'm not something to be trifled with. He won't be impressed because I'm not trying to impress him, but damned if he won't learn by tomorrow morning that I do not make empty promises.

Yours,
Jack

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[JACK THE RIPPER]

July 27, 2011

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You hit me until I stopped crying and crumpled like yesterday's news under you. Do you think I didn't bleed?

You locked me away like I was a thing, leaving me to fend for myself. Do you think I didn't cry?

You decided that my ice-cold words to you would only do melted. Do you think I didn't burn?

Did you think I would forget your funny little games, or was it your aim to make sure I never did? Why did you let your cleverness turn to cruelty? Above all, are you finally proud of me?

Who am I? Why does this even matter anymore? All you are now is a reminder- not a nightmare, not a curse, no. I'll never give you the satisfaction of being those things again. You serve the purpose of a sticky note, and are worth about as much. You are still here in every woman, every whore who dares to live and breathe.

I was able to harness that inevitable truth into good, which is more than you ever did for yourself. You only seemed to focus on harming me, hurting me, and never on what Hell you had let yourself come to. You and your body. Your contaminated, impure body, as vile as the rest of you.

Who am I? Who is this voice? Is it yours, or is it something else, which drives this urge, this need, this duty to eradicate all you stood for? How could I ever come to terms, how could I ever fulfill my duty, how could I ever relieve this itching, ice-cold passion, if I didn't have the scars to remind me just why I should?

I have you, and you are a far better guardian in death.

-Jacky

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