Jack and Jill

For as long as I can recall, Jack the Ripper has always been an underlying secret obsession of mine. London in the 1800s; a mysterious serial killer; panic. The tale has always been the perfect backdrop for my imagination, running wild and bloodied. It's only natural that I honour my long-standing obsession with a neatly wrapped drabble.

I give you: "Jack and Jill".

           I only ever did it for the mere thrill of watching the blood stream forth. Yes, there was sport in watching the whores and picking which of them I would approach and how I would capture their interest. The hunt is what started my heart pumping with the delight of a chase, but what followed – ah, that was the highlight to which I looked most forward.
           The blade of a knife glinting off the candlelight sets my mind racing with all the intricate possibilities this piece of sharpened metal might cause. The woman lies on the bed, quiet and still now, and the white creamy skin of her throat beneath the open collar begs to be given colour. My breath comes quickly, in and out of my lungs like shots of icy water, as I kneel on the wooden floor beside the bed and reach forward with knife in hand. I can see the pulse there, where her neck meets chin; each throb of the tiny beat of life sets my nerves further on edge. I push the tip of the knife into her throat’s flesh and pull towards me, severing that pulse. Instantly, blood springs forth from the depths of the wound, bursting onto her skin like a blooming red rose. I shudder with pleasure at the sight.
           My lust has always been for blood and the fleeting excitement it brings me.
           Yet with her, it is not the same.
           “This will be our last one in London,” she says with her velveteen voice from the shadows beyond the boundaries of the candlelight.
           “Why?” I ask, mesmerized by the red trail of blood as it is pumped from the cut. I am held captive by the way it pools around her on the bed and soaks into the mattress beneath her. The crimson stain grows and crawls as though alive.
           “The deeds have become too prominent in the news, and the herds of whores have thinned, so we must move our fun elsewhere.” She steps into the circle of light cast around the room by the candle. Her face is one of dark beauty, her hair pulled back and twisted to sit at the base of her neck, topped with a dainty hat of aristocracy. Gently, she bends at the waist and takes the knife from my hand. “What was she called?”
           “Mary Jane,” I whisper. “She said her name was Mary Jane.”
           “Mary Jane,” she repeats, her eyes on the dead girl lying spread before her like a gift. “I will make the best of Mary Jane.”
           I stand and turn away as she climbs onto the bed and straddles the body. Her brand of lust turns my stomach, and though I can still hear the sounds of flesh being torn open and her quivering sighs of desire, I am content with simply looking away. The papers have it quite wrong indeed, for the woman behind me is The Ripper and I am merely a playmate.