Ripping Diaries, by Nikolai Zammit
2nd February, 1888. I didn’t mean to do it. I warned her that she would be terrified if I took it off and yet she insisted. No. No. It wasn’t my fault, I warned her. My hands tremble, but for what? No, no, no! There is no way they could ever suspect me. ME.
5th February, 1888. I haven’t heard anything around the town centre nor seen anything in the papers. Alas, she was a hedge-creeper, worthless and wretched. Ahh! It feels good.
7th February, 1888. Temptation, temptation. Perhaps one more? Who would ever care? Lowlifes the lot of them! Oh, this strong desire and crave will condemn me.
15th February, 1888. I cannot resist any longer. How irritating her pleading for mercy, how piercing her screams of terror. How fitting to be silenced by my knife. No more will they scorn me. No more will they judge me. I have lived the life of judgement, and now I hold their life in MY hands.
16th February, 1888. They found the body! They are in search of the killer, ha ha.
18th February, 1888. Montague John Druitt. That’s the name of the apparent killer. Pathetic, everyone believes it!
22nd February, 1888. CONDEMNED. CONDEMNED. He is found guilty of my murders! Apparently, someone had seen him around the Whitechapel area on the night that I killed that wench, Chapman.
23rd February, 1888. Perhaps now is my chance to resist the temptations. I am free of suspicion, not that I was ever suspected, mind you. Nonetheless, his head will wipe away my crimes at the strike of the guillotine. I shall, on the morrow, attend the beheading in the early morning.
24th February, 1888. How very peculiar; I felt no satisfaction nor pity from his death. His death is, of course, on my hands, but not by my hands. Isn’t it ironic that the punishment for murder is… well, murder? We kill for need; nations slaughter other nations in a feast of blood, anguish and pain. The killers are welcomed back and hailed as heroes. As Voltaire writes: “It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.”
Therefore, anything we do out of want should be glorified! The law of nature is thus: the strong triumph over the weak and I AM THE STRONG. There is nothing more powerful, more mighty, and more manful than killing. No! No! A clean slate? NO! I must kill more, I MUST!
9th March, 1888. I just read the brilliant works of Henry Gray, particularly his “Anatomy of the Human Body” and “Gray’s Anatomy”. Did you know that each vertebra consists of two parts? An anterior solid segment providing support and an arch, forming part of a cylinder, for protection. How fascinating humans are.
15th March, 1888. I am starting to develop an anomalous interest in the workings of the human body. Today, my dear friend Dr.Vaughan allowed me to see him dissect a human body, deceased sadly, at the morgue. I am… curious.
20th March, 1888. WHAT A MESS. WHAT A WONDERFUL MESS. I have successfully managed to remove her kidney!! I have it currently sitting on my bedside table!! Haha. Oh, but I must tell you, ripping her torso open created a sickening smell of metal. Unfortunately, I couldn’t even open the window as the wind was whipping wildly and it was bound to turn off my lamp. Nonetheless, I do hope whoever walks into that room marvels at the beauty that I had left.
22nd March, 1888. MONSTER?!?! HOW DARE THEY CALL ME A MONSTER. “She was a good, quiet, pleasing girl, and was well-liked by all of us,”. SHE WAS NOT QUIET NOR PLEASING. SHE WAS A WENCH, A WENCH!!!! LIKED?!? QUIET??? OH I SILENCED HER ALRIGHT. HAHA. No, no, certainly not a monster. They should write “An admirer of the human body” Yes! That’s it. I will write them a letter, they have to understand!
But from whom should I address it from? Surely my name, Jack, is out of the question. “The monstrous ripping of Kelly could only be described as a grotesque act by a soulless monster”.
Ripping. Oh, I am very Clever.
23rd March, 1888. The letter is sent! Sincerely, Jack the Ripper.
22nd April, 1888. “Notorious killer who has identified himself as Jack the Ripper continues to strike fear in the heart of East London. Women are walking in groups as the Police urge them to avoid being alone in the streets late at night. They have no credible suspects as of yet, but the renowned private detective Mr. Holmes has offered his service at no cost to apprehend the terrible Whitechapel Murderer.”
I have apparently gathered the attention of a “renowned private detective”. Odd, I never heard of such a man. Be that as it may, he seems like an outstanding gentleman: qualified, and from what I have heard, quite respected.. Curious that such a reputable man would take interest in the killings of a temptress. From where I see it, I am doing everyone a favour. Shame. Less filth and vermin roaming the streets at night claiming to be yours for a couple of shillings. Shame. Where has the worth of man gone? Shame on your dignity, Sirs. Shame.
15th May, 1888. Oh, I am bored. I am starting to abhor the idea of a perfect world. Killing has now become rather strenuous: surveillance has increased ten folds, and trying to get past it is quite tiresome. I have also noticed a strange fellow outside my window, sitting and waiting as though he is trying to intimidate me. No, no it can’t be. Tis’ but the mind playing tricks on itself. Yet, I feel it wise if I lay low for a while.
19th July, 1888. “Hey boss! I’m back. – J.R” HAHA, I wrote that! I did, I wrote it (with her blood) on the wall after I strangled her to death. Her face, so beautiful, pale and void of any emotion, fell backward. Oh this one was special, it had been long and I needed to savour it. The river of blood flowed as I continued to slowly mutilate her organs. It was exhilarating. Though I must say, I did find her eyes strangely captivating. I hope they won’t mind that I took them with me hahaha.
24th August, 1888. I am aggrieved dearly. These so-called alienists are publishing works in which they attempt to presume how my mind works. Claiming I was born to kill. Stating in black and white that I derive no pleasure from doing so and that it is because I have lost God’s ways. No, no they are delusional and out of touch with reality. I was not born to kill, you MADE me. I am what I am only because you have shunned me for being different than you are. An abomination. Mary Ann, Annie, Elizabeth, and Catherine. Their blood is on your hands, even if it was delivered to yours by mine.
30th September, 1888. “Dear boss, It appears you are no closer to catching me than I am to stop ripping them wenches. Perhaps you can ask one of the ladies to talk? Ha ha oh right, I forgot I cut their throats, silly me. I left you a little gift, a jar of the red stuff. I wish you could hear me, in fact the next time, I will cut off her ears and speak into it, and then I can send it to you! Ha ha.
Jack the ripper.”
I left my dear Holmes this letter at the crime scene; this cat and mouse game of ours has honestly become quite thrilling. AND THE PUBLIC GASPS IN MY GLORY. They say “he wears a leather apron” haha it tickles.
31st October, 1888. “The trickster.” “The miser.” “Pumpkinhead.” Haha, just mulling over some titles for my autobiography. I am in good spirits today! Yes, yes in a good mood! For today is Samhain! Or is it called Mischief Night now? Actually… Halloween? I digress. However, today is a blessed day. Yes, yes blessed! I can on this night and only this night wander around without hiding who I am behind a mask or a hood. A night void of judgement and prejudice. Instead of terrifying people, I get commendations. People don’t shun away from me! Rather, they approach me. For one night, tonight, I am accepted. Today I am the famous Jack-o’-Lantern.. and tomorrow I am Jack the Ripper.