The Ripper and the Breast

Preface

Inmate Number 51793, quite the Study in Lunatirical Science- she is composed today.

She watched me peer at her through the pie-hole in the door. Her eyes are stark and blue, and they have fixated on me with a distinctly sane clarity.

Meeting her gaze- somehow the lunacy and incoherent gestures are less terrifying than this eerie lucidity.

She watches me still as I scribble my meandering thoughts. Perhaps today is the day- perhaps I will be the chosen one. I am feverish and cold sweat pools in tiny tears on my brow, I am exacerbated simply by the thought of what lies behind those cutting blue depths of the abyss. Those endless pools, when not unnaturally bright, are the darkest eternity.

How my thoughts do take a fanciful nature! And I am not in the habit of acting as a fanciful Creature. I am a Man, after all, a staid pillar of Reason and Science.

She thrusts a sheaf of papers through the door. They scatter like snowflakes to billow to the molded stone of the floor. I gather them quickly, so they are not damaged by the filth.

Then heady Realization steals over me, a phantom mist.

My eye catches the elegant and practiced lettering. The words of a Bluestocking! The words of my demented beauty-

In Her Words-

These pages are mine. All that is written here is very crux of Truth. Though I will be mad ere I am finished.

Sweet Horror. Lovely Oblivion! I hope it is finished soon- for my part in this Macabre Opera has come to its bitter end. Let it end, with me.

I don’t know where to start my account of these past months- I suppose you could say the beginning; but that has not been marked. I don’t know where it began. Did it begin with my Father? His Father? Or his Mother’s Mother? Or did it begin on that damp night in the East End? When I searched out Whitechapel to aid the Unfortunates?

I shall begin there, because that is when the Darkness that incubated inside my Sire burst to its unholy fruition.

The night had been damp- clammy. It was an unnatural warmth; sticky and changeable. It slid across everything, like a sort of dancing moss, slimy and rotted.

Oh yes, I knew all about the stories and the fear amongst those who walked those streets, trading their womanhood for a drink of the devil whiskey. I knew all about the Ripper. I also knew that he would not touch me- for I was no Unfortunate there for the taking. My virgin thighs were clamped shut so very tightly.

There was a woman; a particularly worn and used whore who approached me with a hurried desperation.

“Och- Me Lass,” she says.

I nodded to her, awaiting her plea. But it is not for money she asks.

“Come ‘wit me girl! ‘E’ll catch ye sure as that ‘e will.”

I realized that she was offering me a place to stay. I warmed by the gentleness inside her haggard old face, until she slipped her arm around my shoulder, her leathered fingertips sliding down across my breast. I pushed her from me gently.

“No, that is not for me, Old Mother.” My voice was kind.

“Better an auld cunny to lick, me girl, than the knife o’ the Ripper to stick.” she cackled.

I placed a coin in her hand and she looked at it as if it were Salvation. It could have been, if she had not been greedy.

Her name was Anne- and her mutilated body, her Death Masque- was blazoned across the simplistic black and white of the newspapers that very next day.

I approached my Father, then the dearest creature-

“Doctor,” I said, as I had called him that since my Infancy. “Are we to help in Whitechapel tonight?”

He raised his beloved graying and bushy brows at me. “Daughter,” he says, “Did you not see there was another of those Unfortunates murdered last night, her throat slit from ear to ear. It is too dangerous now.”

“Doctor,” I argue, “I am a virtuous girl, no fodder for one such as the Ripper. I was there, last night. I spoke with that very Unfortunate. I gave her coin.”

Then a look I had never seen crossed across my Father’s face.

“Then our work is for naught, and stay home you must.”

In an attempt to humor him, I placed a chaste kiss upon his weathered cheek. And when I pulled away- there was something else there, inside my Father.

“Promise me.”

In that moment- he looked again as the Leader of Men that he had once been. Before the Wasting had taken his hand. His surgery, his very life force.

“Yes, Doctor. I will stay from Whitechapel tonight.”

And I did, only to make my fate all the more horrible. I went down to the Doctor’s Laboratory.

My Father had left his tools exposed, the very meat of his trade.

The Masonic Emblem had been carefully traced in blood and different organs lay in each of the different points. The stench of the rotted entrails assaulted me, and there were distinctly feminine parts strewn about the horrific painting. There were several broken vials about the table and several small leaves that were known to me as Foxglove, or Digitalis purpurea. A stimulant- he had been working on a cure for his Wasting Sickness.

I had known he was a Mason, as all those associated with the Royal House were- but there were factions within- plots beneath plots that I could never have known. The same subterranean dealings that had caused many of the Brethren to be sacrificed during the Burning Times. To be roasted over an open spit; paving the way to Hell.

And for the first time- I wondered about my Father, Dr. William Gull.

I began to realize what he had done.

In the name of Power- in the name of Science.

I felt a touch on the back of my neck then, the familial fingers of my Sire.

“You were not supposed to see this M’Dear.”

“What have you done?” I whispered.

“What I must. And now, so you must too.”

A scalpel gleamed in the light- deceptively elegant.

Another pair of hands came about me, the footman; Jean-Claude.

He was begrudging, but he did his duty with no fuss. He grabbed my hair- fair pulling it out of my head and drug me back to the blooded circle.

Jean-Claude held me there in anticipation of my Father’s will.

His face was almost Transformed, there was something there in the room with us, the tension became thick and the air heavy.

“You are a good Daughter?”

The tears had begun by then. I could not fathom this thing as my Father.

“Yes,”

“You will marry where I bid you?”

I nodded, unable to do more.

He ripped my bodice from me then, my breast bared to his view.

“Then marry the Devil- for you are his!” It was a growl and the scalpel cut into my breast, deeply, precisely.

I screamed as the searing pain spilled my blood across the planks of the floor and into his grisly sacrifice. I was only vaguely aware that my breast, my mother flesh, hung from my body- And my Sire, my Father, continued to carve at me, all the while I screamed and begged. And all the while Jean-Claude held me, indifferent.

He was covered in blood from his hands to his elbows, and as my life-fluid spurted, he brought his face down to allow the gush to cover his face. He let his head rest where my breast would have been, a Mockery.

My throat was raw from the screaming, my senses still unable to escape the pain.

My legs were spread then, and that scalpel, the one that had de-womanized me…took my Virginity.

It was thrust up inside of me in one stealth motion, though it was careful, I see that now. It breached my maidenhead and scraped the interior of my womb, only violating what could never be.

When my thighs were sticky with blood, he entered me… My Sire, the Good Doctor, he fucked me; the aged weapon working futilely inside me as the blood poured from me, over my thighs, over his cock to spread in some sacrificial homage…

Another Good Doctor-

I stopped reading then, the horror of it all fresh in my thoughts. Inmate 51793 was Christine Gull, daughter to the Physician Royale. Anonymous from here until time should stop. Under my care.

At my mercy.

Her privileged cunt ripe for fucking. Seed would never take- not after that trauma. No proof of my Perfidy-

I opened the door then, and watched the wide-eyed creature back into the corner. She begged, she pleaded, and the very sound of her whelping brought me to furious desire. How I ached to own her, to take whatever Nobility that made her blood blue…

The Last Words of Christine Gull-

They braid the rope for my hanging. I laugh at them. Here, this is the real treasury of my works. Find them where you will, in the giggling slit of a whore’s sliced throat, in the empty dead smile of a Doctor who wanted to know too much, or here in the Death Stone soon to be above my head.

You see, it was my Father who found me in his Laboratory. And it was He who put me here, after seeing remnants of those dear “Unfortunates”. Only after I made my Darling Jean-Claude hold HIM in the circle of blood, and I teased his rotten and wilted Staff to its duty. I fucked him there amongst the serrated flesh, bits of bone and sticking blood.

My Breast?

I tore it off myself- in Homage to Those Below. A tasty meal for He Who Cannot Be Named.

Those silly Diary pages, a trap for the simplest fool. And the sweet little Doctor that sought to rape me, to claim me? He whose cock only thickened and begged after he read of my “ordeal”?

He, himself, was a tasty meal- belonging only to Me.

Did I mention that Tyburn is lovely this time of year?