This is the story of a man who was twisted and evil but was broken down by his own mind. This man is Jack The Ripper. No, not the one you may have heard of before. This man is different. Jack The Ripper was merely a nickname. I guess you should have a little bit of back story before you read the end.
Shaun. His name is Shaun. Well, at the moment it is. Before he became a psychopathic killer he was just an almost ordinary kid. He loved everything kids did back then. Toy cars, plastic soldiers and sandpits. Just normal. Everyday, up until the day he turned 18, Shaun would do everything the same. Wake up, go to school, come home and do nothing in particular. On the weekends, maybe he'd go surfing or just relax. Now, you're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this. Well, see here is where it gets weird. One day, Shaun snapped. Every little thing annoyed him. Every noise. Every movement. He couldn't stand it.
He found a sanctuary in his house. Never left. Not for anyone or anything. One day someone came to his door. He approached the front door with caution, peered through the eyehole and released the latches. He flung the door open to reveal a boy that had almost strawberry blond hair, clearest cyan eyes and he was about the same age as him.
"What do you want?" Snapped Shaun.
"I wanted to know if anyone was living here... There were rumors that the house was abandoned." The boy quivered in fear at the stranger.
"Why don't you come inside? I'll show you my home." Shaun smiled.
The man walked into the house and into Shaun's trap. Shaun showed him the kitchen, lounge room, his room and so on. Once they made it back to the kitchen Shaun sliced the boys throat sending blood spraying over the room and himself. The boys body fell to the tiled ground with a heavy thud. Shaun chuckled at how easy it was.
The police raided Shaun's house three days later because the boys mother filed a missing persons report about her son. When the police broke into his home they found the corpse left dead upon the kitchen floor and blood painting the walls a beautiful shade of crimson. The searched the house and found Shaun casually sitting in his room. They arrested him then and there. He pleaded insane. He was sent to a mental institute. There, he was nicknamed by the nurses, psychologists and patients as Jack The Ripper. During Shaun's stay at the mental institute he made friends, with an imaginary person who he claimed to be him. The old him, Shaun.
Shaun, one day, stole a needle from one of the nurses. He knew that if he killed another person he'd get better treatment then the people who are only in the mental institute because they say they are a doctor or whatever. Shaun had many targets to choose from but he decided it needed to make an impression. When the specialist psychologist, that only comes to asses patients every month, visited Shaun to see how he was going Shaun was relaxed and perfectly calm. The psychologist put down an excellent review for Shaun saying that he was doing great. Shaun took that opportunity to stab the psychologist in the jugular with the needle. He eventually died. Shaun was thrilled. Almost immediately he was moved to the solitary confinement section.
By now Shaun's brain had adapted to seeing everything as a weapon. The chair he was sitting on was a weapon. The walls were a weapon. His own body was a weapon. When the nurses came to give him his medication he'd scratch them or fight them. Eventually they put him into a straight jacket. When he had the straight jacket on he'd bite the nurses. He wouldn't let anyone near him without injuring them in any way or form.
He stopped eating. No matter what they offered him. He wouldn't eat it. This was the last person he needed to injure. Himself. Almost every nurse had scars from Shaun's attacks. He was the last one standing. He refused to drink or eat. He knew this was a hard death so he contributed in any way he could. He'd run at the metal door and smash his head on it. Thud. Thud. Thud. Everyday it was a constant stream of thuds. The nurses tried to restrain him but that never worked. He would sleep during the day just so he could be loud during the night. He wanted to die. He didn't care what the nurses or doctors said. He wanted out. Eventually he wasted away. He became skin and bones, his stomach was caved in and he had no energy. He knew it was coming soon. But not soon enough. Once again he started ramming into the metal door. He actually enjoyed it now. Eventually. Crack. His skull fractured into hundreds of tiny shards of bone. Almost there. He ran at the door faster then he'd ever ran. He slammed his head against the door and the skull had almost completely cracked all over.
So why did I tell you this? Because I am Jack The Ripper. I can hear you all now "But I thought you died?" "How can you write a story when you're dead?" blah blah blah. Well you see, my skull being crushed didn't kill me. I am writing this and tomorrow at approximately 3am I shall commit suicide. I'll ram my head into the door again hopefully this time it shall snap my neck.
Yours truly, Jack The Ripper.