The Ripper
This is my job.
My name is Lucas, and I am the ripper.
I stand at a ghastly 6 feet, eight inches, towering over many of the people I encounter. Dressed in black, eyes a bright yellow tint you’ve never seen before. But what lies beneath them is long gone. My soul, it died the moment I picked up that revolver and felt that trigger on my finger. I am a lifeless character. I feel nothing, I see nothing, I understand everything, and my heart is empty.
So when I saw her walking there, alone on another dark night in New Jersey, I felt no remorse. I see them come towards me, and I automatically know what I have to do, almost like a necessity.
No one assigned me this job, other than myself. I can feel, more or less taste, the sin on my lips when they pass. Their fear courses through my body like the blood that once inhabited the veins. A slight shake starts in my shoulders and creeps down to my wrists, so I crack them to get them started. I feel my hand reach down into my pocket, the pocket dark with a million mysterious and begin to follow her.
It’s almost like she can sense me behind her, as her head whips around and our eyes connect. But she doesn’t know that they do, this small delicate creature walking before me. Like they all do, she shrugs it off and keeps going, walking the lonely Jersey side street like it’s nothing.
Sorry, silly girl; this is Jersey. You don’t get a feeling, and brush it off. It’s a foolish decision on your part, among the many others before you.
But those eyes, as soon as I felt them on my lifeless carcass, I felt something awaken inside of me. A feeling so scary, a feeling I haven’t felt in my 253 years on this earth. No other soon to be victim has ever arisen any feeling like this in me, at such a frightening level.
She did. Crawling swiftly like a tarantula, I stood behind her. And then I was next to her, my tongue darting out like a snake’s. At the very tip, I could taste her death already. It was the tangy, sour taste a human would never comprehend. Bitter like sweat and a light beer, but refreshing to the dead and inert.
I must have her.
A distant noise seizes me from my thoughts, and I recognize it as one of the many of the dead. A metal song, some sort of inkling to the indulgence she has committed for the night. It sounds like something of Symphony X, souls I’ve taken long ago.
She has the type of taste I would’ve liked, a couple hundred years ago.
But now her taste is something different, something fresh, and something new. Something about to be dead.
We’re almost there now; the revolver would feel cold and smooth to my touch if I were alive. But I am not, just like everyone else. Everyone is dead inside, whether it is now or tomorrow that they realize it. Some part of you has died, whether it is the soul or the will to continue and live on the life you’re given.
The crunch of the gravel underneath her footsteps reminds me of what I need to do again, and in a swift moment; that revolver is out once more.
I point it at the middle of her back, directly on the spine and over where the heart is. I pull that trigger, the trigger that ends so much for many and hear the low pop! that I’ve become familiar with.
A bright blue light shines, and I watch the process of her soul leaving the body. It leaves in a slow, smooth motion, winding through the air in wisps. It climbs into the hollow opening of the gun, sliding in the narrow entry way until a click! goes off, and the deed is done.
Her body falls, in a lifeless notion. Her jaw falls slack, open and shows the dark night her tonsils. The eyes, the bright blue hues I’d gazed into before are shown as well, as the life leisurely exits it.
And at that moment, I almost feel bad.
Key word: almost.
The alias is Lucas, and I am The Ripper. This, this is my job.
I stand at a ghastly 6 feet, eight inches, towering over many of the people I encounter. Dressed in black, eyes a bright yellow tint you’ve never seen before. But what lies beneath them is long gone. My soul, it died the moment I picked up that revolver and felt that trigger on my finger. I am a lifeless character. I feel nothing, I see nothing, I understand everything, and my heart is empty.
So when I saw her walking there, alone on another dark night in New Jersey, I felt no remorse. I see them come towards me, and I automatically know what I have to do, almost like a necessity.
No one assigned me this job, other than myself. I can feel, more or less taste, the sin on my lips when they pass. Their fear courses through my body like the blood that once inhabited the veins. A slight shake starts in my shoulders and creeps down to my wrists, so I crack them to get them started. I feel my hand reach down into my pocket, the pocket dark with a million mysterious and begin to follow her.
It’s almost like she can sense me behind her, as her head whips around and our eyes connect. But she doesn’t know that they do, this small delicate creature walking before me. Like they all do, she shrugs it off and keeps going, walking the lonely Jersey side street like it’s nothing.
Sorry, silly girl; this is Jersey. You don’t get a feeling, and brush it off. It’s a foolish decision on your part, among the many others before you.
But those eyes, as soon as I felt them on my lifeless carcass, I felt something awaken inside of me. A feeling so scary, a feeling I haven’t felt in my 253 years on this earth. No other soon to be victim has ever arisen any feeling like this in me, at such a frightening level.
She did. Crawling swiftly like a tarantula, I stood behind her. And then I was next to her, my tongue darting out like a snake’s. At the very tip, I could taste her death already. It was the tangy, sour taste a human would never comprehend. Bitter like sweat and a light beer, but refreshing to the dead and inert.
I must have her.
A distant noise seizes me from my thoughts, and I recognize it as one of the many of the dead. A metal song, some sort of inkling to the indulgence she has committed for the night. It sounds like something of Symphony X, souls I’ve taken long ago.
She has the type of taste I would’ve liked, a couple hundred years ago.
But now her taste is something different, something fresh, and something new. Something about to be dead.
We’re almost there now; the revolver would feel cold and smooth to my touch if I were alive. But I am not, just like everyone else. Everyone is dead inside, whether it is now or tomorrow that they realize it. Some part of you has died, whether it is the soul or the will to continue and live on the life you’re given.
The crunch of the gravel underneath her footsteps reminds me of what I need to do again, and in a swift moment; that revolver is out once more.
I point it at the middle of her back, directly on the spine and over where the heart is. I pull that trigger, the trigger that ends so much for many and hear the low pop! that I’ve become familiar with.
A bright blue light shines, and I watch the process of her soul leaving the body. It leaves in a slow, smooth motion, winding through the air in wisps. It climbs into the hollow opening of the gun, sliding in the narrow entry way until a click! goes off, and the deed is done.
Her body falls, in a lifeless notion. Her jaw falls slack, open and shows the dark night her tonsils. The eyes, the bright blue hues I’d gazed into before are shown as well, as the life leisurely exits it.
And at that moment, I almost feel bad.
Key word: almost.
The alias is Lucas, and I am The Ripper. This, this is my job.