The Damned Thing
My collection of their perfume-scented clothing is harmless. My voyeuristic viewing from afar would be perceived as a perversion by most but would keep me from imprisonment as long as I was careful. It was the book of names and addresses that could ultimately cause the death of the whores were I to open it again. The book has become cumbersome, and I fear I can no longer keep the pages together.
Marked in red, my favorites reside in the district of Whitechapel. In blue I marked routine police routes. Getting caught is not an option. I would take every precaution necessary, though if I were to give in to my desires I would surely participate in taunting the district police. Perhaps I’ll even send them pages from the very book I struggle to keep closed. Ha! If only I could watch them as they struggle to find me.
As I write, the attraction grows. Perhaps tonight I will give in to my urges. I’ve prepared the jars for trophies. Through my studies, I've become somewhat obsessed with human anatomy. Perhaps closer examination of their internal organs would give me a greater understanding of life, of medicine...of women. This next statement to be said without pun, but perhaps stopping the whores from their infestation, while furthering my invaluable research, would kill two birds with but a single stone. Do I manipulate myself into the slaughtering of the broads using my scientific examinations as justification? Am I feeding science or a demon of murderous lust? If I begin will I be able to stop?
My written entry this evening has stirred within me a temptation I can no longer resist. I will open the pages of the damned thing and hunt for the first name penned in red. The cobblestone streets will collect the blood spilled tonight, and though they will pursue after me, they will find me not, for Jack is nimble and Jack is quick, and the throat of the dresses my razor will nick.