Bloody Apron

"All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams." - Elias Canetti

 

 

 

"Get back here, you rampallian!" The fancily dressed man screamed, chasing Jacklyn through the rundown slums of Whitechapel, London. She'd slipped her hand into his coat pocket and ran off with a hefty £50, an especially large amount of money to be carrying around. She loved easy marks like him; people stupid enough to bring lots of cash to the streets and fat enough to outrun. It only took her a few minutes to lose him, a deep sense of pride filling her small frame as she did so. Though she didn't steal just for the fulfilment- the feeling was only a bonus- that came with it.

Jacklyn stole and evaded punishment from the wealthy because she was their complete opposite. Whereas people like the obese man she'd thrown off lived in big, warm houses, she found herself stuck with a smelly whorehouse, where the only warmth they had was the candles her and her mother lit when they prayed. She didn't mind it, however, not as long as she had her mother's love. Jacklyn was sure she'd be happy with her latest haul. She could already picture the dinner they'd have, or maybe her mother would get her another book to read! £50 was certainly enough, and her mother was certainly kind enough.

 

 

Jacklyn would happily waddle through the halls of her unchosen home, stopping only as she heard murmurs through her dear mother's door. She could only make out pieces, but that didn't stop her from recognizing the tired conversation. "A place like this isn't right for a girl her age… If you loved her, you'd give her up, Clara." "Love? I have plenty of love… Mind your business…" Eilisa was as nosey as ever. Couldn't she see that she was happy? Sure, she didn't get pretty dresses like the other girls or get to be as clean as the other girls, but none of that mattered! Jacklyn had her mother and God; she had love. That's the prettiest and cleanest thing in the world.

 

 

 

Jacklyn's mother slapped her across the cheek. She'd rant and yell at her about the, "importance of proper manners," and the,"impertinence of doubt." Jacklyn had asked who she was writing to.

 

 

Jacklyn preened from her mother's praise, accepting her new apron as if it was a doctor's coat. She'd cooked a fine turkey for the both of them. This was why she'd always listen to her mother and never questioned her (again). She didn't have to know of who mother wrote to or called out for in her sleep; only that she loved her, as any saintly mother should. Truly, she was a blessed girl.

 

 

 

Mother was sad. Jacklyn couldn't extrapolate why. She'd been a dutiful daughter, a devout believer, and a clever girl; everything she had demanded of her since she'd been born. She hoped she wouldn't get the bottles again. She always got so angry when she drank... She still saw the last time in her nightmares.

"God doesn't like what we do." Eilisa stared at her. 

"What?"

"God doesn't like what we do here. He calls it a sin."

"Okay…"

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"God doesn't know mother like I do. Everything she does is out of love; that makes it virtuous."

 

Jacklyn would peak through mother's open door. She was bent over her desk, moving her goose quill so seamlessly across the parchment that she'd almost mistaken it for her hand. Mother always had that grace about her, one unlike someone of this world: an ethereal projection. It was so ill-fitting for such a soul to be surrounded by squalor. Mother must have noticed this herself; it could've been the reason why she was so sad some days.

Jacklyn felt conflicted.

Would she risk mother's ire and ask about the letters again? Or did she sit back and watch her become more and more miserable?

 

 

"How do you do it?"

Eilisa blinked. "Excuse me?"

"How are you so nosey?"

"Uh…"

"How do you not think of what might happen if you act out of line?"

Eilisa looked at Jacklyn, really looked at her. And then… "I think of the good it'll do, for me and for who I act against."

Jacklyn thought on that and then nodded.

 

 

"Mother…"

"Yes?"

Jacklyn felt mute for a second. "Who is it that you write to?"

"……….."

"……….."

"Is this why you won't love me?"

"What?"

"Is it because I keep failing my role as your wife?"

Wife? "What are you talking about mother?"

Instead of answering her question, Clara Bailey wept fat, ugly tears. In but a moment, her ethereal beauty had faded, leaving only a shrieking banshee. She'd tear at the old wallpaper of her room- mother always loved that pattern- wailing, as if someone had ripped her arm off and smacked her with it.

"WHY, JACK!? WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME!? WHAT MORE DO I NEED TO DO FOR YOU TO ACCEPT ME!? WHAT MORE COULD I HAVE DONE TO MAKE OUR GIRL PROPER ENOUGH FOR YOU!?"

Jacklyn froze, unable to comprehend the sights and sounds before her. Mother had changed, but also hadn't changed somehow. It was like… waking up from a dream. Before, everything blurred together foggily, blending all her memories into one massive image, with small distant details in the background. But now?

She'd woken up.

 

 

Mother didn't love her.

She loved "Jack," whoever that was. Someone rich, apparently, as mother's letters showed. Rich enough to get mother and her, or just mother, out of the whore house.

Jacklyn couldn't blame her though. Ever since she'd woken up, she also wanted to leave.

 

 

Eilisa had been feeding mother since her breakdown. She was practically cationic these days. It hurt Jacklyn to see her that way, just as it probably hurt mother to be that way.

 

 

Jacklyn had been reading the Bible more recently: God was the only one who'd love her. She'd gotten to the ten commandments, but two of them confused her. "Thou shalt not kill," and "Honor your father and mother."

 

It wasn't because of what they were- she was sure others had fathers worth honoring- but rather what them needing to be followed in conjunction represented.

How could she honor a mother who craved death if not by killing her?

 

 

Jacklyn would tie her apron around her waist. It felt like it had been ages since she'd put it on.

Probably because she only wore it when she was happy.

But now wasn't the time to dwell on that. She had work to do. 

Jacklyn would tuck a knife into her apron, concealing it. She doubted the other women would appreciate what she was about to do, just as God wouldn't, but they didn't know anything about her or mother. Mother was a proud woman, for better and for worse. She could never be content living in such a place, but she also could never escape such a place. And thus, living had become its own special version of hell for her.

But if she continued to live in prostitution, to live in sin, then she would really go to hell, with not even death being able to spare her from the misery she felt.

How could she claim to love her if she willingly subjected her to that?

She had to step out of the lines everyone made for her, for herself and mother. To get rid of both of their pains; the pain of she who had to experience pain, and the pain of she who had to sit back and watch, powerless.

 

 

She didn't struggle. Not one bit.

Jacklyn came in, stabbed her mother in the heart, and she took it. Of course, it was around the time Eilisa came to feed mother, so once she stepped into the room, Jacklyn stabbed her to. She had been too shocked to run away, or even scream for that matter, but she had done so after the fact and that meant Jacklyn would be the one who had to run; she wasn't going to jail for loving her mother, or for kinda liking- it was more of a respect really- Eilisa.

She had work to do.

 

To honor those who wished for death, who were only happy when first waking up or when drunk, Jacklyn had to do one simple thing: murder them. She'd walk through the cold, forever dirty streets of White Chapel, London thinking of her work; of her very important, urgent work.

There were whores out there, women who could only dream of better lives: of freedom. Jacklyn hoped to be their liberator, their freedom giver. And she'd certainly not shirk that duty so soon after obtaining it.

 

Again and again, she sought out more whore houses, and again and again, she'd free those poor girls of their suffering. Maybe God would forgive them if she got to them fast enough. Maybe he'd forgive her for being so nosey, inserting herself into other people's lives when they never asked for her help.

It was all an act of love.

 

 

"The Whitechapel Murderer." That was what they were calling her in the paper. It was a little bland for Jacklyn's tastes. Though then again, she couldn't blame the cops for not knowing the name that'd really speak out to her.

They'd have to know her story for that. Her true story.

 

 

"Dear Boss, I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal.

How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight.

My knife's so nice and sharp I get to work right away if I get a chance.

Good luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Dont mind me giving the trade name. wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha."

 

The letter was perfect. It got them off the apron angle and made them think she was a man. And with her murdering two more girls later tomorrow, making sure to cut one of the two's ears off, they'd be sure to believe it. Jacklyn could see why mother spent so much time writing letters now; it was a blast to lie on paper, though she preferred to lie to others rather than herself. It all came so naturally to her; it was clockwork really.

The name did take her a little bit of time to come up with, surprisingly, but once she'd looked back on her life, it had become simple.

"Jack the Ripper," in honor of her father who ripped their family apart.