Whitechapel, London, 1875.

Whitechapel. One of the most poor and degraded districts in London. Full of thieves, prostitutes, beggars. Outcasts, to cry it loud.

Muddy streets, poor houses and dangers everywhere. Here no one can be sure to survive until the evening. Every day could be the last. If you're not strong, you must be shrewd: otherwise, you're dead.

It's a matter of survival.

Whitechapel is surely the worst place to grown up. I was born here a cold, dark night of eleven years ago. An outcast among outcasts, just another poor wretch who will most likely end his life on the gallows or with a knife in his back. Because of my breed and social condition, I had been doomed to this since my birth. It's my fate.

But I can't deal with this! It's not fair! I don't want to end in a such way, I don't want to become like those wretch! I don't want to become an useless drunkard like my father! No, I won't!

My father...oh, God, I hate him. I hate him with all my being, and he hates me: he hates me because he knows I'm better of him. How could my mother marry him? He's violent, arrogant and always drunk. He loves the bottle more than his own wife and son. He would willingly kill me just for a bottle of wiskey.

I refuse to think that a such monster could be my father!

Well, maybe he's not. My father hasn't any job, and sometimes my mother must to give her body for money. Maybe I'm son of one of her clients. Sometimes I would really wish it.

Today is my birthday. I'm eleven. You would think that I'm a child. I'm not. I had never been a child. If you want to live here, you must to grown up as fast as you can. No one cares of you.

I colud die today. I could die tomorrow. No one would care. No one in the world.

I look out of the broken window. It's cold, and it's raining again. Here always rains. I've seen the sun only a few times in my whole life.

Grey sky. Endless rain. No hope.

I hate Whitechapel. I hate my parents. I hate my own breed. If only I would have one opportunity to show my worth!

I turn my glance away from the window and look at the teacher. He's explaining mathematics. I like maths, it's my favourite subject. I like school: for a while, I'm far from that dirty hovel who is my home. I'm far from my father, from his violence. I'm far from that desperate, destroyed woman who is my mother. And I can even imagine that I'm far from the misery, from the poverty, from the mud on the streets.

Of course, it's only illusion. I'm not far from all this-not enough.

I'm still in Whitechapel. I'm still in poverty. I'm still chained to my condition.

An outcast among outcasts.

But I can still imagine that maybe someday I'll menage to change my life, to prove my worth. Maybe I'll be far from here. Maybe I'll be rich and powerful.

And maybe, someday, I'll be proud to say to everyone: 'My name is James Ratigan.'

A little pointless, I know. It's just a short story I wrote in a rainy day. Anyway, R&R!