Rating: T
Warnings: Some graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of alcohol abuse
He woke to the noonday sun streaming through the windows onto his unshaven face, along with a massive hangover. The previous night's drink had clouded and pained his mind, and as he sat up, turned it so the world was but a blur. He stumbles across the floor, tripping over bottles mostly empty of the gin that brought him this misery to wretch in a bucket. Heaving brings little relief, but his head has stopped spinning.
The man, his face swollen and red with drink despite his body's thinness, rises to look out the window. Even here on London's East End, which outside no doubt stank of manure, rotting garbage and all manner of human filth and misery, it was evident that London had been cursed with another disgustingly lovely day.
"Hateful," he muttered darkly.
So hateful, that somewhere far from there, ladies were flouncing about twirling their parasols without a care in the world. They were so stupid, with their infernal happiness. Just the thought made his blood boil, his vision redden. The thought of the ignorant world filled with ignorant people blinded him with rage.
He couldn't function like this. Relief was needed.
Tonight was most definitely a killing night.
Yes, ending the worthless existence of one of those sluts always did it for him. The sweet look of terror in their eyes as they realized their fate. Hot blood flowing freely over his fingers from their slashed throats. How the lusty heat radiated from their bodies when he cut them open, displaying their insides to the world.
It was such a lovely feeling, the rage and fury at this world of imbeciles pouring out of him through the knife. It granted him a passionate, burning pleasure that cast all other feeling into oblivion.
He could hardly wait for the inevitable night to fall.
In the morning some fool would stumble across the body and scream in shock at his masterpiece. They would report it to the other fools at Scotland Yard, and then another world of fun would open up to him. He would watch the panic, the fear, the chaos rise up around him. People throughout London, throughout the world would read about him, talk about him.
They would use their stupid monikers. The Whitechapel Murderer. Leather Apron. Names that were tasteless, mundane, and reflected the imbecility of those that gave the names to him. Even the names invoked in him a desire to kill.
There was only one name he truly liked, a name that sent chills of fear up the spine upon hearing it. The perfect title, that embodied him so exquisitely on his quest of rage and blood.
Jack the Ripper.
AN: Wow. My first fanfic. I will admit, I am pretty proud of myself for finally getting up and writing. One of my friends kept bugging me about it. You know who you are! *gives evil eye* Anyway, I kind of creeped myself out with the fact that I was able to write some of this stuff. I'm not a psychopath or anything. Promise. Please, please, please review. I don't care if you liked it or not. If you did, YAY! If you didn't, tell me what you didn't like so I can improve. Just please no flames. All reviewers get virtually cookies! CIAO! ~CV