My warped Jack The Ripper fiction, which I used as my personal writing piece for the English Language GCSE (which they awarded me the hallowed English Language at GCSE prize for, based- I am sure- on the greatness of this story. Read it and feel the eight whole quids worth of book tokens....) And could I just say, that my ex-English Teacher IS in therepy, but it's got nothing to do with me.

The Last Diary Entry of Jack the Ripper

L.S Arnold

November 9^th 1888

Nobody ever dared think that it might be a woman that did all those things, after all, if a woman is capable of the henious crimes, which I committed, then anything is possible. Far better to presume that a dark man in a deerstalker hat, a Jewish man in a black coat struck those women out of nothing more than an evil desire for flesh, than that a woman with a broken heart killed those women because she couldnt kill the man who broke it.

Soon, however, the sun will rise in the west, because I am a woman, and I have killed. Murdered and mutilated not just one woman, but five. Five women, none alike in nature, but all with a common bond, and that common bond was my husband.

I have never kept a diary before; I have never felt the need to. I always thought that the only people who kept diaries, journals, records of their lives, were people with a secret which they could tell no other human being, and I thought, no I knew, that I would never be in that position: what terrible secret could this heart conceal, what evil doings would this hand write? There was nothing, I was a good person, and despite the things I have done I know that I am still. He is the one who is responsible for these terrible acts.

I know that I will go down in history: I am legend as it is. I read the newspapers, and see that they call me by a name that suggests not only that I am a man, but that I am a character which can be worn like a cloak, a murderous lunatic whose only want is for the blood of innocent women. I am admired for my intelligence, the sound of my pseudonym rings out in every public house in London. Without me Whitechapels drinking dens would be far duller places- it is not real to any of these people, not even real to the victims, there is only one person who truly feels the enormity of the crimes I have committed, and that is me.

I write, diary, with such fluency and so candidly, because I am drunk. I am so drunk that I am almost sober: I see the world so clearly now, the night sky is darker through those windows than it has ever been on nights previous to this one, and maybe it is because I know that the sky will never become light again. I have never really been so intoxicated by anything before: apart from him, of course. He is an addiction, and I have been denied the drug I need to survive. I have not seen him for almost two years now, two years since I last saw his dancing eyes, or heard him say my name. Nobody else can make my name sound as he did, sounding the soft vowels against the hard consonants with an effortless roll of his tongue.

I was born thirty years ago tonight, to Catholic parents I was always going to disappoint. Nothing I could ever achieve would have been enough for them: the only way I could have gained their approval was to bear the Lords child, and I was never going to be pure enough for that. My father told him that he was not good enough for me, but I could not see that then. Instead I told my parents that they were the ones that could not see, and when they cut me from their will and in turn, from their lives, I did not think it would matter because I had him. I had him as only a wife can, safe in the knowledge that we were married by a Priest and that in Gods eyes we would be one flesh, forever. I imagined the life we would share, remembered how my mother had told me that a woman without a husband was less than nothing, and I was bathed in the knowledge that with a husband like mine, I was more than his wife, I was the woman he loved. I imagined the children we would have, a maternal murderer, a concept unimaginable by the leaches at The Times, but those children, I soon realised would never exist. The reason I was never to share the Holy Mothers fate, was because I cannot bear children as other women can. I lost two at once, long before birth, and the third, a son, was dead just seconds after his premature birth. I will never forget the look on his face when he was told that his son was dead, that he only breathed for a matter of seconds. He lost all the love he had for me that night.

I was twenty-six then, two months exactly from my twenty-seventh birthday. He was gone by the time I was twenty-eight. He told me that he was in love with someone else, a woman younger than me, whom, I had no doubt, could give him the only thing I could not. Her name, I remember he said, was Mary. Mary, just like the Virgin. The cruel ironies life can throw up! He left me the night he told me about Mary Jane, with tears in his eyes, and no ring on his finger.

His brother told me the rest, about the others: Anne, Liz, the other Mary and Catherine. All of them alike in profession, each one members of an immoral ring of women whose want in life was cold, hard cash. The money they didnt take from him, they encouraged him to drink away, and it was those women that introduced him to Mary Jane.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do to her the second that he uttered her name, of course I never thought I would do it, but two long years have eroded my sanity, forcing me to do things and mix with people associated before only with my worst nightmares. I cannot pretend here, anymore than I can pretend in my head, that I did not enjoy an element of the murders that I committed, had their not been an element of pleasure in it for me, then I would not have tracked down mistress after mistress and slit their throats, left to right, left to right, but the pleasure of taking their lives from them as they took my husband from me was not worth the torment which I am going through now. Brought up in a Catholic family, I was, but a true believer in the Lord I was not, not until I became a murderer. Now I feel His presence everywhere, and everywhere His wrath. I know that I will be punished forever in the darkest pits of hell, but no torture inflicted upon me by Satan, can be any worse than the torment I feel each day, inflicted upon me by my own mind.

I chose my dates so only he would ever know that I am the Whitechapel murderer, not that he would ever believe that this was the case. He would simply think it a coincidence each of the whores was murdered on dates so significant, dates which brought births and death so close to his own heart. I killed the women that lured him into the dark streets of Whitechapels backstreets on three dates I knew he would look at twice on the daily newspaper: His thirty-second birthday, born as he was on August 31^st 1856, the second anniversary of our sons premature birth, and ultimately premature death, on September 9^th 1886 and the double murder of two of his street walking comrades I committed on September 30^th, to remind him that five years ago, on the day before September faded into October twin girls died. Tow dead babies with both his and my cold blood, in their tiny veins.

The first would be strange, he would read of the murder in the newspaper the next day, and flinch as he was informed that in the early hours of the anniversary of his birth a woman was killed only yards away from the room he shared with Mary Jane. The second would disconcert him, I imagined, a woman killed in the same way on the day his son died only seconds after his birth, perhaps he would imagine this was a sign from God, telling him that he was wrong to leave the wife he vowed he would stay with until death did them part. But who could he tell of this peculiar notion? Not Mary Jane herself, not the metropolitan policeman on the desk at Whitechapel police station, neither could he warn Dr. Frederick Abberline that the murderer murdered simply to torment his adulterous soul. No, he would simply sit and wait for the third date, and just as he knew it would, it quickly came: two prostitutes dead on the night that his two daughters died. By now, I imagined he would be insane with guilt, ruing the day he ever left his beautiful wife, cursing the hour he ever met Mary Jane.

I left the best until last. Waited in the darkness for more than a month. He, just like Whitechapel, thought that the danger had passed, that this insane man had disappeared, crawled back into the pit from whence he came. Nobody suspected the woman, the tall, slender woman, with golden ringlets, dressed as a midwife, who entered the house that sweet Mary Jane, shared with another womans husband, early on the morning of November 9^th. Neither did they think very much of the midwifes smile, nor the way she almost skipped up to the small room, where Mary Jane lay, sleeping. Nobody would know that Mary Jane died on the night that her lovers wife became thirty-years old, apart from, of course, the lover himself.

I could not be content with just killing her, slashing her throat, left to right. I saw from an envelope on her bedside table, that her surname was Kelly, and wondered if she loved my husband as I did, if she would kill for his love. I was quite sure that she would not, I guessed that nothing had ever pushed her over the edge, towards insanity. I will spare you the details of sweet Mary Janes ordeal, I wonder if he will find her body? I hope that it upets him, enough for him to be haunted by an insane notion for the rest of his life, enough to make him know what it is to be a killer. As I wrote earlier, I know that I will go down in history, know that I will be the source of endless speculation until the day that mankind ceases to be. There are only two people who know the truth, and before the light dawns on this day, I will be dead. He does not know for certain, but in his heart he is sure.

To him I will say only this: Maybe I loved you too much and too long, or perhaps the crimes that I committed prove that I loved you too little, but you know in your soul, that the man they call Jack the Ripper bears your surname and your heart.

In death as I was in life: