User:Kkrenc

It's perfect.

The fine end of the brush flicks back and forth against the spectacularly coloured canvass, staining its surface a magnificent blue. The euphoric expression that has pained my face for hours shows no sign of fading.

Perfect.

I lower the brush, stepping back to admire my handiwork.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

The amazingly executed portrait of the beautiful woman in front of me outshines all other projects I have ever created in my life.

It's perfect.

The necklace is what I love the most. Strung up around her throat in all its golden glory. My grin grows wider on sight of it, and I begin to wonder what such a necklace would look like on a real woman.

---

Her name is Elizabeth Stride. A prostitute.

She suspects nothing as we walk silently together down the darkened streets. She believes that she will be paid to satisfy my needs, and satisfy me she will, but not in the way she thinks. She is art.

It will be perfect.

I lead her down a near pitch black alley, a smile spreading slowly up my cheeks.

She smiles too, but it doesn't last long, fading as she sees the glimmering metal in the palm of my hand. She doesn't even get the chance to scream.

It's perfect. More perfect than I could ever imagine.

The stunning red necklace shimmers brightly under the light of the full moon.

It's even more beautiful than the necklace displayed on my painting. The sight of it fills me with a sort of sadistic joy. My mind drifts back to another piece of artwork I had the pleasure of painting a while before this one. Another woman in a wide brim hat, bearing a smile so wide it can hardly be considered human.

And I wonder what that smile would look like on a real woman.

---

Her name is Catherine Eddows. A prostitute, just like the living canvass before her.

Much like the previous woman, she knows nothing of my psychotic intentions.

Again, I push her into a narrow alley, the sticky scarlet paint from my previous masterpiece still staining the metallic brush in my hand.

Dear Catherine has no idea what is about to happen to her, and by the time she realises her fate, she is already on the ground. Pale. Limp. Lifeless.

As I begin to construct the art below me, I am filled with a sense of disappointment.

It's not perfect.

She doesn't even smile, and even if she was, I have spilt far too much crimson for the crooked yellow teeth behind stained lips to even be visible.

However, one thing is perfect.

The glistening crimson necklace spilling down from her throat.

It is perfect.

---

My works of art have been found by many unsuspecting passers by, although the dulled photographs on the front page of the slightly browned paper do not depict the beauty of the art in all its glory.

Still, it was perfect. Far better than any of my previous works of art.

I see they have made a name for me now. A name which shines a glorifying light upon my spectacular artistic abilities.

The Ripper.

However, I am uncertain in why they have named me Jack. But if Jack is what I am recognised as, then Jack I shall be.

I lift the cold wooden brush in my hand, that same euphoric grin spreading across my cheeks once again. Without a word, I dip the fine end of the brush into a vibrant green liquid, preparing to begin my next masterpiece.

It will be perfect.