When I first got told that I had to make a blog for two of my uni subjects I was anything but thrilled. I find it tedious enough changing my Facebook profile picture often enough that I keep up with my age and posting status’ regular enough that society remembers that I’m still alive so the idea of having to write regular blog posts in this thing wasn’t exactly something I was looking forward to. But somehow something weird has happened since then, maybe someone made the commendable effort to trek it out to my house in the middle of nowhere and hit me over the head in my sleep, maybe a bug has crawled inside my brain and is messing with all of my inner wiring or maybe somehow I’m actually just kinda enjoying this for my own reasons.
Anyway, I thought to myself that it was pretty crumby that this blog had to be all about the media and Pandora internet radio and asylum seekers and neo-Nazis and all the other weird stuff I’m going to post about (even though I do find all of that stuff really interesting) when there was so much more creative and fun stuff that I’d like to write about and post here. The only problem is that when it comes to this sort of thing I always find a way to make the single worst first impression humanly possible and then spend an eternity trying to reassure the other person that theres more to me than dead baby jokes and Holocaust puns. However, this time I’ve been determined to say something that, regardless of its likely reception, actually does represent a larger part of me and not just the small talk I put on to get through awkward situations.
That part of me is the writer and the poet. The arty farty snob with the pen and paper who sits on his high chair drinking ridiculous types of exotic tea and correcting the bad grammar of the common folk beneath him. The guy who chains himself to the computer whilst he cyclicly dissects and rearranges one seemingly insignificant sentence until it finally evolves into the beautiful version of itself he always saw in it. The guy who goes out and experiences the most trivial and peculiar of things just so he can write about them with that little bit more authenticity and credibility for his dedicated audience of three: Mum, Dad and my girlfriend, Chantelle.
So anyway, I wrote this piece a week or so ago for my Creative Writing class at uni because I just thought that despite all of the changes in Crime Fiction and Non-Fiction over the years from the original stories of Sherlock Holmes to the absurdist Stoppard play The Real Inspector Hound to the latest season of NCIS or The Mentalist, barely enough writers have ever dared to delve into what every last detail must look and feel like from the perspective of the flawed, damaged murderer and not just the dashing and brilliant detective. As a kid I always liked to see things from the view of the bad guy, from Freddie Krueger to Leatherface to Jigsaw and all of the other wacko characters out there, just to better get a grip of why everything was happening the way it was, and not simply what was happening. Some of you may read that and straight away hear the ‘Serial Killer Alert’ sound ringing all around you, but don’t worry, I assure you I’m much more curious than psychopathic. So anyway, this post has drawn out far too long as do most of the things I write so I’ll finish up by just saying that this story is only a first draft and the first thing that I have written in over 6 months, and also the first time I have ever tried writing something like this so I hope that whoever is reading this finds a way to enjoy it or at least get through it, even if that does in turn make you as weird as me. (And on that note, I’d just like to commend anyone who even made it this far through this post! Well done, you’re getting a gold star either way)
‘The Ripper: The Shadow of Whitechapel’
by Tom Fogarty
I remember she looked so beautiful standing there that night. Her petite hand raised over her juicy lips as she tried to stop her rum breath from leaking out onto the man before her, her shoulders sinking and rising like the tide as she foolishly swayed back and forth, and her twirling blonde hair dancing in the rays of the street light as if to some kind of beautiful melody that fell silent on my ears. There was a whole aura that floated around her like a screen through which the rest of us looked in on. She was nothing like the girls before; the washed up, unwanted, pathetic leftovers of society. No, she was above all of them. She was perfect. And I wanted her.
They stood there for some time, the two of them, their drunken voices echoing out through the quiet, deserted back streets of London. But eventually he lent in and whispered something in her ear, brushing her long hair aside as he did so. She looked up towards the empty sky, as if for some divine intervention, but as he pulled back she brought her head down again and smiled, a small shiver of submission running through her body as she did so. Suddenly his eyes lit up hungrily and a crooked smile stretched across his rough face. His breaths had grown deeper and more deliberate, large clouds of steam escaping from his mouth and nostrils before rapidly dissipating into the light of the lamp above. He reached out and put his hand on her hip, and then after a moment’s hesitation she turned and they walked down Miller’s Court towards her small room, the back of her blood red scarf shining out from beneath her heavy jacket like a flash of fire against the night sky as they faded into the black of the alley.
From outside the cracked window I watched as they fucked. His depraved body on top of hers, beating her into the bed as if out of some malicious hatred. She lay there limply, letting out short artificial moans as he pounded her fragile body into that mattress over and over and over again… And then it was over. She lay there topless on the bed, watching as the cold November rain flowed down the stained glass, slowly leaking in through the fissures and trickling around the small pile of twenty pound notes left on the windowsill. He was gone and she was alone. Like a helpless, wounded animal she began waywardly staggering around the cramped room as she began to tidy up. A light breeze had begun to drift in through the window, playing with her loose white undergarment as she wandered around the space. Her soft, corrupted voice seeped out of the window and into the night as she began to quietly sing to herself as she did so,
“Well I remember my dear old mother’s smile,
As she used to greet me when I returned from toil,
Always knitting in the old arm chair,
Father used to sit and read for all us children there,
But now all is silent around the good old home;
They all have left me in sorrow here to roam,
But while life does remain, in memoriam I’ll retain
This small violet I plucked from mother’s grave…”
She was still singing when I came in through the door, her body facing the far wall as she folded clothes into her bedside cupboard. I waited at first, taking in my last opportunity to watch her as she carried on blissfully unaware of the event to come. My eyes followed her smooth legs up from her feet to the back of her slightly bent knees to her thighs and then to the teasing curved lines just below her lingerie where her rounded buttocks began. And then with one swift movement I leapt forward, like a viper onto a helpless mammal, the soles of my shoes barely gracing the floor as I swept across the room and plummeted into her body. I remember hearing the first raw orgasm of the night leave her wet lips as steel met skin and the untamed deluge of carnality rushed through her panicked veins. Her body trembled at first, shaking back and forth sporadically as choked screams and hysterical breaths continued to leak from her open mouth. I tightened my grip on her arm, holding her still as I drove the blade further into her flesh.
The muscle and organs felt incredible, tightening up just enough that I could feel every soft layer as the knife buried deeper and deeper into them. This was where a woman showed her talent, and where the true beauties of this world rose above the rest. And then suddenly I felt some resistance – I had hit bone. I leant in, putting all of my weight and force into her, pushing and pushing as the agonizing sound of the bone bending and splintering continued to mount until the tension reached breaking point and the explosive crack thundered through her whole body. The blade was then free to plunge in and tear through her, and the conception was finally complete. I held her there for another moment, feeling every drop of heat bleed from her trembling body, flow over my hands and pool around my feet until the final breath left her cold lips and she collapsed like a limp doll in the puddle before me.
I remember the thud of her body hitting the floor echoing around me as if in a distant dream as I stood there consumed by the euphoria. Time seemed to stop and accelerate all at once as the onslaught of silence rung through my ears and the blood trickled out across the room. The whole world seemed to be tearing itself apart and reforming all around me as I lifted her from the timber and spread her out across the bed. If what had just happened was like a waking dream than what followed could only be described as conscious sleepwalking. I was not so much fulfilling my fantasies on her but rather watching on as they were inflicted by another before me. The last thing I recall was turning around as I closed the door and gazing in awe at the beautiful artwork painted all over the room and the fulfilled body lying sprawled upon the bed. It was truly my masterpiece.
Since that night I have watched the world crumble and the rigor mortis set in as photographs of Mary Jane Kelly leaked out. I have seen the generic sketches and blurred CCTV images plastered on telegraph poles and displayed on televisions around Whitechapel. I have heard the trembled whispers hovering through the streets like a dark cloud over the city. I have smelt the fear permeating from the mothers and fathers and children of this place like a foul odour. I have felt smooth skin turn to goosebumps and quiver under my touch and I have tasted the warm blood that these people have to offer me. And after all of it I can say that everything they have said about me is wrong. I am neither man amongst them nor a demon above them, neither a figure on a screen nor a face on the wall, and neither the salvation nor damnation of the society that I have laid waste to. I am but a name, a myth, a peripheral shadow that moves in the darkness. I am Jack the Ripper.
Jack The Ripper, wallpoper.com (2012)