My dalliance with the devil started in the London sewers, when I disembowelled a vagrant, his guts tumbling in the black water, dragging the stinking remains of its owner with them.
Since, my knife has hardly been a week without blood. I have slit the throats of syphilis whores, punctured bellies of garbling drunks and unmanned underage rapists. Because the poor are flooding Chelsea, burgling our homes, robbing our merchants and corrupting our children.
Today I once again dipped my knife in crimson. A vendor of meat of dubious origins, who had sat up shop at the corner of Kensington Gore. I killed him in plain daylight, blinding him with the sun’s reflection on the blade, then plunging it in his throat. By the time I was done with him, his head had been severed from his body.
Hiding my blood-soaked shirt under my coat, I returned home more self-assured than ever. In the hallway mirror I saw not a man, but a god wiping sin from the face of the earth.
Sweeping clean our streets has given me more pleasure than I had anticipated. There is an unbridled ecstasy in taking the lives of bottom-dwellers. The more pain I inflict, the more I enjoy it.
And there’s the rub. The euphoria lasts less long each time. But I cannot kill more. Not without the lust for blood consuming me totally. Not without drawing attention to myself.
So I will bide my time by reliving the murders in this penny dreadful.
If blood cannot drip from my knife tomorrow, it will drip from my pen.
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