He would always be a killer. No matter how hard he tried to change, and break it, the creature inside of him would always be one step ahead and fight back with a vengeance.
The first time he took a life, it was like finding something that was lost many years before. It gave him an adrenaline rush, a spark of freedom, and it took a small piece of the rage that had built up over the years. Before he was Jack The Ripper, he was plain John Druitt, an Oxford man deeply in love with an Oxford woman.
Helen had tried to help him. But she had failed and he'd disappeared. Then years later they found each other again and she helped him again, and cured him momentarily. And they had become lovers in that time. One of the happiest times he could remember before he was a murderer.
Unbeknownst to him, he had fathered their daughter, Ashley, and she'd kept her pregnancy hidden from him for many years. He later found out she'd frozen the embryo for a hundred years. By that time he'd already relapsed and fled, leaving Helen heartbroken.
Helen.
The one woman he truly loved with every fiber of his being. Even in his rage he loved her.
He knew that this type of love could never be diminished. No matter how hard he or the creature inside of him tried, his true love for Helen would never fail. It was the only thing that made him feel.
But the rage was so great he could hardly control his actions. No, he had no control over his actions. The most awful part was he never got to really know his child before she was taken away from him cruelly. Or that the only woman and true lover he had ever known was to be ripped away from him each time he got on the wagon.
And when he fell off…
Was this his life? Falling off the wagon just when he'd gotten back on? Losing the one person who understood and once loved him so completely again and again? Because of him?
He felt as though he were breathing underwater.
Perhaps that was his fate…