A/N: I can't believe these things came out of my imagination. Scared myself, I did. But oh well, what can you do? Here's sexy Freddy's view of his Ripper visions. I just thought that it would be cool to try and put a few things in "From Hell" into words. Literature's stab (no pun intended) at visual adaptation. Inspiration comes from strange places…
One-Shot
Fredrick Abberline's Life Worth Not Living
Flashes of color bulleted his mind. Mostly reds and blacks, but all of them vivid and noisy. Loud and disturbing, like gushes of blood or gurgling liquid or screams or impaling knives. Darkness and light flowed over one another. Each time he experienced the insanity of his… indescribable torture, it was always like a different world, a sort of dreadfully gnarled dream. Almost like a Hell he'd never been preached of. A Hell worse than all that could be imagined. Beyond all things wrong and twisted lay that world, his world. Newspaper clippings of terrible murders, women using their last breathe in a scream, a carriage looming at the end of a road, grotesque images of intestines sprawled over a pale, rotting woman – these were the pictures God had chosen to show him. Sometimes he'd see a solitary bundle of grapes that lay half-eaten by a shallow puddle in an alley. He knew what those meant; he'd seen the women eat them before they were slaughtered. Those grapes sealed a fate more terrible than words. But, possibly worse than the usual chaos, was the occasional figure he saw. Blurry, cloaked in black with a matching top hat, and walking steadily away down an alleyway, bloody knives swinging rhythmically at his sides. He felt cold when he saw that man. Cold and fearful of the terrific skill that man held with his knives. And then the choking would drown out all other thoughts. A choking in the background. As if someone just beside him was vomiting without a mouth, or drowning in some thick, red goop. Because it was always red. He didn't need to see the source of his nightmare's constant echo to know that. Darkly bubbling, thickly slathered blood of a crimson hue flooding the damp ground like spilled gravy…
And then he would awaken and take in his first breathe, born anew in the madness of his dreams. Of his visions… time for the Den…