Journal of Jack The Ripper

August 31st, 1888;

I know I might appear as a mad woman my dear journal, but I am not. My father was a doctor and during the beginning of my childhood, he would show me the beauty of the art of medicine. He was a man of ideas and great beliefs. His heart was of gold and he helped the poor as much as he could do so. My uncle had always frowned upon this, he was disgusted by the lower class. It was from him that I learned to hate. It was from him I learned the satisfaction of killing. My bitterness started when a man from the slums came in demanding tonics from my father. You could tell the man was strung out, and hoping to get a thrill. It was like the devil himself came to see us when he pulled out that knife and grabbed me by my hair. “Now, or the girl gets it!” His knife pressed against my throat allowing my smallest drips of blood drop down. My father tried to calm the man and begged him not to hurt me, coming closer to the man with each step. “That’s too close!”, he scraped across my throat and face within seconds as he flung me aside leaping forward with his blade. I could see my father lay on the floor bleeding out, my body shook while I clung my neck and face with my hands. Drenched in blood. The man started filling a sack with anything he could place his hands on until the bell above the door dinged and my uncle walked in. With a flash of his hand the man fell to the ground. My uncle dropped his gun and ran over to me, and started shouting for help. “Is he dead?’ I whispered through tears and blood,’Yes.” my heart had felt happy knowing the man was dead. “Good.” Years have passed, and I continued my fathers study of medicines. I wanted more though, and even with my wits and skill, nowhere would take me. This was part of the pain of being a woman. My uncle however showed me the skills of death, so that my body would never know a scar like the one etched across my face, ohw so many years ago. It became apparent I would never be able to continue my research of the human body without obtaining a corpse myself. It did not matter my uncle's place in politics, or the strings he would try to pull to allow me to carry on my fathers ideas, it was believed men were only suited to this line of work. “Why not just be a nurse?”, they’d ask. The nerve of them, my skill was not going to waste away galloping behind men. I wanted to be a doctor, and the best one at that. This, my dears is what led me to this. Looking upon the slums of the city, the hatred in me grew. It was their fault my father was dead, their fault I came to this position in life, and well when life gives you lemons, you must make lemonade. I had to be smart though and use my wits about this, a woman such as myself would easily stand out, but a man would not. I prepared the perfect disguise, and of course night time would be the best time. I needed a pattern to follow, which easily enough boats docked every Thursday and Friday. They’d depart on Saturdays, or Sundays. Amongst these ships are butchers and workers, one of them could easily be blamed if things get too heated. I needed victims that would not be missed, and could easily be drawn away from the public's eye into more secluded areas without suspicion. My first victim had soft skin, she was a prostitute and easily led away when i flashed money to her. I didn't even need to say a word, it was so easy! I thought I would get sick the first time but I didn’t! I watched as she led before me down an alley, then at the most perfect moment I stepped forward and grabbed her from behind. She giggled for a moment, I suppose she believed I was just “ready to go” as you would call it. Ohw, how it changed with the first cut, then the second I watched her try to step away, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gurgled upon her own blood. I couldn't help but smile, I mean can you blame me? I had to make it look like a killer for blood and draw the attention away from the views of a surgical matter. I stabbed her, and cut her in so many ways angels would even blush. I then began to make my cuts along her abdomen to begin my examination. I was ever so close, until I heard footsteps coming towards me. I had to disappear. My uncle caught me coming in. He looked upon my trench coat and grinned. We spoke for many hours, he was very proud and had some ideas about how to further my examinations. He has proclaimed to get me the proper surgical knives, and obtain jars to keep specimens in. He believes my work will do great towards his fellow club of men, and will inspire the world. Until next time my dear journal, for it is time I rest and plan my next move.

In the late 1800's a series of gruesome murders broke out, rattling the media and world. The killer was never identified and believed to be a male of surgical knowledge. The nickname Jack the Ripper was given to the killer by media coverage, and sometimes also referred to as the White chapel Murderer and Leather Apron. In this piece above the murder of Mary Ann Nichols takes place. Her body was discovered at 2:30 a.m. on Friday August 31st, 1888 just an hour after being seen alive.