Maniacal desire surged through his heart—pulse racing, fingers trembling, palms sweating. The taste of impending satiety metallic on his tongue, making him salivate.
He swallowed and licked chapped lips, then wiped his hands on his trousers before tugging on his gloves. Panic licked the fringes of his thoughts when his damp digits wouldn’t slide into the soft leather, but he finally managed. His sigh of relief drifted away with the mist of his breath in the cold November air.
Slipping deeper into the shadows of Whitechapel, he carefully unsheathed his blade, the cold steel glinting—almost winking at him—in the moonlight.
A prostitute stumbled onto the cobblestone street, nearly falling into the detritus along the curb. No one accompanied her, and as she headed home, she hummed a ribald tune matching that still being sung in the brothel she’d just vacated.
If he crept down the alley and stayed in the shadows, she’d never hear him coming.
She turned down Dorset Street, teetered on her heels, then giggled and burst into song, the lyrics unbefitting even a woman of her disgusting station. Her warbling voice offered the perfect camouflage for his footsteps. It was fortuitous. Almost too easy. But still exhilarating.
She reached the entrance of a small flat and opened the door with a flourish, performing a small dance as she sung. When her mouth opened wide for a high note, he raised his blade and slashed—encountered almost no resistance in her soft, tainted flesh. No retaliatory strike at his body, no scream ripped from her lungs. Her only responses were wide eyes, gaping mouth, and the sweet sound of burbling blood.
Quivering with excitement, he dragged her into her room and closed the door to outside interference. Only then did he begin his labor of love.
This take on the Jack the Ripper story was inspired by the WordPress daily prompt: Triumph.