Jack: They called it murder but I called it art.
I lurked in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. The bevy of beautiful women I selected as specimens were perhaps unsuspecting of my talents. The good people of London were unsuspecting as well. Yet as that month of September, 1888 passed, after I had skillfully managed to dissect and disembowel four women, leaving their remains to decorate Whitechapel like human canvasses, it occurred to me; the locals now had great expectations of my work. I had become a skilled artist in the medium of human flesh.
Why did I do it? Ah, I am quite sure the gentlemen at Scotland Yard would love to know the answer to that. Why indeed? I did it with purpose! It was sublime and beautiful, this sight of torn flesh. The rushing scarlet that trickled from their necks as I first pricked my knife. The red river that flowed across their clavicles. Once the blood began to pour I was insatiable in my creation. Like a painter’s brush I wielded my dagger, deeper and deeper until I hit solid bone. I could not stop till I’d sliced their torsos clean open.
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