The Ripper

Words cannot possibly describe how much I detest them.

They pretend they are beautiful, when truly they are the most hideous creatures that could have crawled out of the deepest pits of hell. No intelligent being would place them above the status of animals, for that is all they are and all they hope to be. Many have compared them to cats, or even deer, but to me they are all filthy pigs. They have no shame; in fact, they showcase a sort of pride that they have polluted the world since the beginning of time. Each of them is different, but not a single one is unique. Their appearances vary, though all possess smeared faces and stained souls. They lurk where the light cannot see them and expose them for the surreptitious serpents they are.

Escorts. Call girls. Hookers. Sluts. A million names for a single wretched virus.

I hate prostitutes. I hate that they pretend to dress lavishly to feign a level of class they will never exude. I hate how they are so quick to abuse themselves; the human body is to be respected, not auctioned off to the highest bidder. I hate how they have no respect for themselves or their “clients,” a set of people whose only purpose is to be held up off of the fires of hell by the disease-ridden whores they visit. These are people who, for one reason or another, have decided that the classic allure of true love is not worth their time. After all, why wait for love when you can buy a decent substitute on the street corner?

I do not believe these people deserve to live, but there are far too many of them, and they enjoy appearing inconsistently and disappearing with no trace. Instead of futilely attempting to remove the effects of this problem, I have chosen to eliminate the cause. The world has no need for such rats that crawl the streets and line the sewers, spreading their black plague and encouraging the destruction of morality. I do not expect to destroy them all, but I believe that after a certain point, the rest will understand and cease their depraved ways.

One particular instance I recall occurred quite recently. I was slowly traversing the city sidewalks on my nightly rounds when I spotted what appeared to be yet another girl willing to sell herself to any takers. She stood in an alleyway, just beyond the reach of the streetlights’ wide, watchful eyes. I slowed my steps as I approached her, and though I could not see her face, it was obvious that she was watching me.

“How much?” I asked, tossing on a false smile in hopes of putting her at ease. I didn’t want them to fear me right away, after all. She gave a small shrug and stepped out of the alley, though still hiding in the shadows.

“Depends on what you think I’m worth.”

It struck me as surprising that she hadn’t decided on a set price. Most of them were strict about such a thing, often demanding to see the money before they went any further. They knew they could be raped and earn nothing as easily as anything else.

“I guess we’ll have to see exactly what that means,” I answered.

“Do you have a place in mind?”

“Just follow me.”

She walked very close to me, heels clicking on the sidewalk next to my silent footsteps. As we passed beneath the glare of multicolored lights from the neon signs lining the street, I caught a glimpse of what she was wearing. A heavy black coat reached down to her knees, and I could see some sort of sparkling red material hidden beneath it. She wore no jewelry, and the dark, silky curtain of her hair continued to hide her face from my eyes. She trailed her fingers down the inside of my arm and slid her hand into mine, lacing our fingers together, another action that confused me just slightly. So far, she was the most unusual woman I had ever encountered.

I led her up the stairs to my apartment and opened the door. Before I even got the chance to turn on the lights, she had latched her arms around my neck and started kissing me. I couldn’t stand it anymore; something was different about her. I gently put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her back, flicking the light switch so I could finally see what she looked like.

As I had expected, she was beautiful. She reminded me of a porcelain doll, with her colorless skin and perfectly sculpted lips of gleaming, vibrant red. I swept her coal-black hair behind her ear so I could see her better. She wore no makeup around her eyes, and I was secretly a little thankful, because she certainly didn’t need it. Instead of getting frustrated with me, she simply looked hurt, maybe even a little afraid, and it finally dawned on me.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Startled, she averted her eyes to the floor. “…How could you tell?”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Lyn-Z,” she mumbled, clearly separating the two syllables.

“Well, Lindsey,” I continued, “I highly suggest you choose a different line of work. This is too dangerous for you.”

“There’s nothing else I can do,” she said sadly, her voice shaking. “I’m not making any money with art, and it’s only temporary-”

“It’s never only temporary,” I told her, trying to keep a growl out of my tone. I gripped her shoulders tighter. “You get buried in it. It drags you down deeper and deeper and never lets you go.” I lowered my voice and tilted her chin up so I could look her straight in the eyes. “It will kill you.”

She was trembling, and for once, there was a stab of guilt in my heart at making a woman feel afraid. I didn’t want to hurt her, really. I didn’t want to take out one of my many knives and carve her beautiful face into slimy ribbons of blood and skin. I didn’t want to cut out her perfect eyes and pack them in ice and mail them to the police. I didn’t want to sew her lips shut forever and slice off uneven chunks of her dark hair with a rusty razor and remove the tips of her fingers and toes one by one.

I had done it all before, and there was no doubt in my mind that I would do it all again. But not to her.

“I want you to promise me something, Lyn,” I told her. “Promise you won’t ever try to do this again. Anything is better than this. You are better than this.”

A glassy tear escaped from her eye. “Who are you?” she whispered. I leaned forward and kissed her for a single moment, catching the tear on my finger and flicking it into the air.

“Gerard.”

“I promise, Gerard.” A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but I didn’t return it. She left without another word.

The next morning, watching the news, I saw it.

“A young woman was found dead in the alley just outside her apartment early this morning. Few details are being released, but at this time it is speculated that the victim, 23-year-old Lindsey Ballato, is yet another prostitute murdered at the hands of the serial killer currently identified only as The Ripper…”

I set my empty coffee mug in the sink and filled it with water, then walked over to the window and pulled back the dark curtain. From the thickness and shade of the clouds, I had a feeling it would rain all day and well into the night, a perfect time to find one or two rats still walking the streets, if they could even truly walk anymore. I loved the rain. It felt cleansing, the only force powerful enough to wash an entire city’s pollution down the drain. The rain would quickly destroy any evidence the police might hope to collect upon discovering the bodies, but I would still be as careful as I always was. They would suffer that night, as they would whenever I would find them wandering the city’s hollow, dead streets.

I tasted the tang of regret as I thought of Lyn, but I quickly brushed off the feeling. Prostitutes were killed every day, and countless more innocents as well. I couldn’t be held responsible for what had happened to her. I had warned her, after all.