Bridging The Void

When I lost her it shook me like the bottom had fallen out of my world. Someone once said: You never really know what you have, until you’ve lost it.
So much I never understood…

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I know people will judge me – and that’s acceptable. That is understandable. But if I try to explain, try to outline on these pages, the reasons why I did what I did, then perhaps you will understand me; though I know you’ll never forgive.

When I took the first one, it felt like a pressure valve had been released and all the pain inside of me, all the hurt in the universe, had come bleeding out of me in great arterial gouts. With each incision, each tug, each rip, I felt that I could breathe more freely. The awesome weight that had settled itself upon my shoulders and in my chest had dissolved.

But I knew my work wasn’t done.

The task remained unfinished. The second one felt just as good. Decorating that whore with her dirty innards provided a partial catharsis, an alleviation. It gave me the power; a power all too lacking at the time of my loss. And the third and the fourth and the fifth proved equally satisfactory.

I hadn’t been the model son; I never tried to be, and my mother never expected me to be. But I wish with all my heart that I could take back some of the words that I uttered in anger, some of the actions that caused her sorrow. The tragedy is though, that I thought I knew it all - me; the eminent surgeon, respected gentleman, pillar of society, friend and confidante to royalty… Whereas, in truth, I knew nothing of life.

She was my advisor, my listening ear, my mentor. I never knew it; never fully appreciated her for everything that she did for my life.

At night, I find comfort in staring into the flames of the large open fire. The conflagration dances and twists, mesmerizes me, takes me away from reality. I also have a small, but growing, number of candles – one for each of them – that helps to cast the spell of tranquility. But candles melt away; fires burn down to nothing. And I am left with this gaping void that sits in the location where my heart once dwelt.

So I shall take another tonight. The ladies of the night emerge from beneath their stones when the sun goes down and the London mist rises. Yes, I’ll take another one, I’ll once more bloody the contents of my little black bag. Some brazen, unsuspecting slut who thinks that Jack the Ripper will never take her. Well, he will. He will rip and slash and tear, for the sake of his soul and the memory of his dear mother.

Jack the Ripper! What a ridiculous label to attach to a man such as I! The authorities have no comprehension of my motivation. If they did, then maybe they would understand me. The prostitutes conduct themselves in the vilest manner, and they flaunt their foul wares for the most base of male clients. Why should they live when she has died? She lies cold in the churchyard, whilst they are on heat on the grimy cobbled streets.

I extinguish the candles; the hour draws nigh. I pull on the long, dark overcoat and gloves, and take up my black medical bag.

I note that it feels lighter than usual.

# # #

I shall finish this account. After all, I found the previous author’s words to be interesting reading up to this point. This killer obviously felt that he was the only one who could taste the agony of loss. He, of course, was wrong.

My sister never made us proud, the way she carried on, selling her body for coins. But I promised our mother that I would watch over her. And I let her down. She became just another Ripper victim, number five in a series, for the newspaper sellers; Black Mary, ex-brothel keeper. But for me, she was my flesh and blood: Mary Jane Kelly – the girl who shared my childhood, until she went so, so disastrously wrong. But whatever she did, she did not deserve what that monster did to her.

When I left the theatre that night, heading for home but detouring to do a nightly check on my misguided sibling, I saw a familiar face, dashing through the shadows, like a ghoul escaping God. An acquaintance of mine.

And that’s when I found her – or what remained of her.

I wanted to go to him there and then and hammer his brains out. But why should I swing for him?

So I waited for several weeks, entered by a rear window, and hid myself in his house – after removing a scalpel from his bag. He won’t be making the headlines again…

I shall bury this document with him, in the cellar of this house; and, maybe, in the dark, cold years to come, someone will discover it. And the truth shall be known. I hope that my descendants will understand what I have done – and the reasons behind it – even if they cannot condone it (that is if the incompetent police force can detect me from this glaring clue).

Before I leave, I shall sit a while, light a candle, and remember my dear, dead loved one; until the flame flickers out.