A Lust for Blood

Through the struggles of 19th century England, a man struggles to cope with who he is.
Secluded and alone he sat, drenched in water from the ongoing storm. The man reached beneath his
coat and checked his pocket watch. It was nearly 12 oclock now. He was seldom accompanied. But
this is fine, he preferred it this way. It wasnt his choice, but, however; it was his fault. Or was it? You
see, this man wasnt like others. He was always outcast by those living around him. Not for his
personality, not because of the clothing he wore, but rather, for the cuts and incisions spread across
his arms like stars on a dark, winter night. Not, depression, no, but because of an erotic impulse. An
impulse so strong, so powerful, that it had been a miracle his psychological status had remained
stable. You see, what you must understand about our nameless friend (Lets call him Jack, shall we?)
is that what seems to be normal, acceptable, and permissible in its entirety to him, can appear to be
taboo, in a sense, for those surrounding.
Jack cut not to please a weary soul, but instead to satisfy his urges. These urges made Jack feel so
wonderful, yet, caused him so, so much pain. Pain mentally, of course. The incisions only furthered his
want, no, his NEED for blood. There wasnt one particular detail about that which Jack loved so dearly.
He loved the smell, he loved the taste but most of all, he loved the touch. There was just something
about feeling, the warmth of a body across his soft, tender flesh.
To Jack, there was nothing more utterly satisfying than to finish up a days work at the mortuary and
come home to his children. Jack had many children, you see. Some long, some short. Some sharp and
even some dull. He may not have companions that he can converse with, but none of that mattered
anymore. His children would be his friends. His children were all he wanted. All he needed.
It was true; the more Jack cut, the more Jack satisfied the urges, the better he felt. But, everyone
knows you can only do something so many times before it leaves you feeling empty on the inside. And
so it was that, eventually, Jack became tiresome of his cutting, tiresome of his current resolution to
the urges. So, like any normal person would, Jack set out for a new cure!
And here we are. Alone on the doorstep. With Jack. It was just another day in the life of a Freak. At
least thats what everyone thought! Thats what everyone said! Not to his face, no, but Jack knew they
said it. Knew they said the mean things! Jack had finally had enough. They would pay for the
outcasting. They would pay for the treachery.
No, control yourself Jack. Youre better than this. Youre not a monster. Only to them. They dont
matter. Its not their fault, theyre foolish and nave.
My apologies. Now, of course, where were we? Ah, yes, the doorstep. After a long, long day, Jack was
exhausted. He had been at work hard since the early sunrise until the fall of dusk. It was there, when
walking home past Whitechapel road as he did every day that it began. There began a new era for
our lost friend. A haven where he could be free to do as he pleased. A home for Jack.
Jack had never really taken in the sights of central London. Until now. And the world wished he never
did. He saw beggars, drunks, and prostitutes roaming the foggy streets. It was a horrid place, filled
with decay, disgust, and damnation. Just being near the spectacle filled Jack with a mix of emotions.
Overall he felt, anger prevailed. He hated what he saw! Hated what it was! He wanted to cut, he didnt
know why, but he wanted to cut. With a halo of death hanging overhead, Jack withdrew from his vest
pocket, a small scalpel he used when embalming his patients. He began across the street toward a
wall of whores. He walked quickly now, and filled with envy. Why couldnt he be like them? Why
couldnt he be normal? Thats all he wanted! It wasnt his fault! They did it to themselves. They caused
their own suffering!

Jack reached into his trench coat pocket and checked his silver pocket watch, and without another
thought, he grasped one of her shoulders and with a passion for demise; he spun her around quickly,
pressing her body against the wall. This one didnt go down easy. She struggled and kicked! But you
know what they say; the first kill is always the hardest. She screamed, oh yes, she screamed. Silly
harlot, dont you know that no one can escape the Rippers blade? He placed the utensil beneath her
throat and pulled. He pulled harder, harder, and harder and with all the strength he could muster.
Then, he felt it. Her fresh, warm blood against his pale skin. Yes. This is what he wanted, what he
lived for. It was the most amazing feeling he had ever had, much more intense than his petty little
cuts.
As her body fell, Jack followed her to the ground. His mind wanted him to stop, but he just couldnt!
He quickly flipped her about and laid her upon her back. With a quick motion he ripped apart her
blouse. He then pressed his pocket blade into her chest, pulling down, down, down until finally, he
had opened her. Jack forced his fingers, then hands, and finally arms inside of her. Then Jack began
to sob Uncontrollably.
He stood up covered in her blood. Then he ran He ran, He ran, and he ran. Jack didnt know where
he was going, but he was going nonetheless. His buckled boots could be heard blocks away from
where he now was. As he went on, Jack passed a newly formed puddle. For a brief moment he
stopped, stared into it, and just thought. Thought about the world, about the woman, and for once
about him. He saw not what others would in this puddle. No, he saw only madness. He saw a freak,
not himself. Hed never asked for any of this, yet it was placed upon him. Why? Had he done
something wrong? Was it who he was? What could he have done to deserve the wrath of an almighty,
angered God?
As he kneels there, gazing into the puddle, for a brief moment and brief moment only, he saw himself.
Not what they thought of him, not what they portrayed him to be, but who he was. A man. Corrupt,
yet gentle in every way imaginable. He had made peace with himself at last! He was free!
This, however, could not change the sound of 20 bustling footsteps raging toward him. Jack began to a
slow from stride to pace toward the end of the alley he had ended up. As he walked, he made peace
with His maker and apologized. He apologized for what he had done, and even apologized for who he
was. Whether he was forgiven or not, Jack knew in his heart that everything was going to be alright.
As suddenly as he began to walk, he was at the end of the dark corridor. He heard them start at him
then stopped with firearms aimed ahead. He reached into his trench coat pocket in hopes to check the
silver pocket watch one last time, when he looked up and met the eyes of a young officer. He saw in
him the same look he received every day on this street. He saw the sight of a freak. But no matter
how many times he had seen it before, for once and only once he thought nothing of it. Jack then
purposely made a quick snatching motion from his pocket when a cloud of gunpowder disembarked
toward him.
When the smoke had cleared and the echo of the gunshots had faded into the abyss, all that was left
was a mangled body of a misunderstood man. Jack lies there, lifeless. From his bullet wounds seeps a
red plead. A plead that wishes desperately to be heard. A plead silenced only by its owners Lust for
Blood.