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"I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become."
~Carl Gustave Jung
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He knew what he did.

He remembered every cut. 

Michael carefully stood up, his eyes never leaving the butchered woman. There was nothing left to distinguish her by. He gagged, but nothing came out. Behind him, the lion kept its distance by the door. 

"I couldn't stop myself." He muttered, each step he tried to take only made him stumble. "It felt natural, Set. Like I had to, I needed to." 

He fell to the floor and landed in more blood. He wanted to stay in this position forever, never to stand or move. The haunting memories of what he had done invaded his thoughts and only worsened the pain. 

"I killed them all. I can see it all so clearly, it was me." He continued to mumble to himself as he caught a glimpse of Set walking towards him. 

The lion stood by him and placed a paw over his head. "Get up." 

"Why couldn't I stop myself?" He ignored the lion. 

Set growled and slashed his face with pure aggression. He yelled in shock, only for Set to place its paw against his head again. "Get up!" 

Michael finally obeyed. He gradually stood as half his face bled from the attack. His eyes looked back at the woman beside him. "Jesus. I- I'm sor-" he couldn't even speak without stuttering. 

"We must leave now." Set stared at him, its patience seemed incredibly thin. He had never seen it so angry before. 

"I can't move." Michael whined. "I don't know who I am."

That only frustrated Set further. It roared ferociously in his face which only made Michael stagger back. "Set, I'm sorry. I didn't know this was possible." 

"Enough talk!" Set had enough. It stepped back and looked around the room. Michael didn't speak again in fear of what may happen. He watched the lion ponder in its place until it turned around and faced him. 

Suddenly, it charged at him. He barely had time to say anything before Set leapt forward. Instead of being pounced on, the lion phased into him. Michael fell to his knees, but it didn't take long to stand again. He was still in control of his actions, but a whole surge of confidence flowed through him. He knew what he needed to do, and he felt unstoppable.

Michael looked at himself in a mirror atop the woman's desk. The gash across his face was turning transparent. His own body regenerated, and his strength returned to him, only tenfold. 

He walked to the bedroom door but then stopped. Instead of opening it, he locked it and turned back. The window would serve as a better escape route. He shoved the curtains aside and tried to pull the window up, but it seemed to be stuck. In a fit of rage, he elbowed it with enough strength to break it. 

He finally raised the window and climbed out. In the cold and lonely street, he was the only soul around. So once he closed the window behind him, he took off in a sprint. 

How is this humanly possible?

How could he have done this?

There was a horrible gasp of realization as Michael tumbled backwards and fell to the floor. He tried to stand back up, only to collapse against the closest table. His stomach tried to empty itself, forcing him to gag as he felt himself about to throw up. But he kept it back inside. He took another look at the corpse that laid in bed before quickly turning his head back.

His breathing intensified tenfold. He tried to run to the window, only to trip and fall directly against it. Shuffling his back against the wall, he tried to catch his breath but he failed. Staring at the carcass ahead, he let out a raw, and unfiltered scream. That was until he slapped his hand against his mouth, forcing him to stay silent.

Every part of his body was violently shaking. Even his hat had fallen off. A horribly loud ringing noise plagued his ears as he began to pound a fist against the floor. His gasps continued as he started to slouch towards the ground. When he looked back at Mary Jane Kelly, he screamed yet again. A terrible scream of pure confusion, anger and fear. But that only caused him to slap his mouth shut again.

He started to hit himself, slapping his head forcefully and rapidly as he let out a groan. Tears began to shed, as they quickly turned into a sob.

"No, no, no!" He pounded his head against the floor. Suddenly, he whipped his head back and tried to sit against the wall behind him. His whole head was bleeding, especially his nose. He couldn't breathe properly, continuing to loudly inhale with his mouth opened.

There was nothing he could possibly do or say to justify his actions. He took her life away because of his anger, she didn't deserve it, no matter her profession. An innocent girl turned into a rotting carcass, her face unidentifiable and her body torn to shreds. That's all that remained of her.

The thoughts of his actions rushed his mind. Despite wanting to deny everything, it somehow made sense. It was no coincidence he was near every murder, only to conveniently pass out shortly before each one. He was murdering subconsciously, completely unaware of his actions.

His wrath controlled him, as he killed with absolute rage. Because of his loneliness, he targeted the prostitutes. They were insignificant to him, only to serve as a reminder that he's destined to live alone without a special person in his life. While he spent so long trying to overcome his doubts and fears, these women sold their bodies and love away. The thought of it forced him to take out his aggression on them.

It explains his constant disappearances, his convenient timing, and the reason why nobody had discovered the killer. Nobody suspected him of pulling off such brutal crimes. Even the police trusted him after his help in spreading their message.

He had gotten the name Jack after reading it in the newspaper while drunk. Wanting to murder but couldn't as he was in his home, he decided on writing a letter. Instead of exposing himself, he used the most recent name he had read, and coined the title, Jack the Ripper. Over the course of months, he sent three more letters for fun.

He always carries a knife on him personally, after years of warfare, he never knows when he may need it. This just led to him having the perfect murder weapon at all times. He would have been suspicious of himself, if it wasn't for the fact the knife never had any blood stained on it. There was no way he could have washed or cleaned it. That was until he realized the horrible truth.

In his uncontrollable state of rage, he was so thirsty for blood that he resorted to licking his knife clean with his tongue. It explained why there was never any blood on it, and the awful taste that lingered in his mouth.

When Valerie had found him after the fourth murder, his wrath had already forced him to hide away any evidence. The wound inflicted to him after the chase had disappeared on its own. It was because of his uncontrollable state that his own curse took control, essentially regenerating him to keep him active.

That was the power of his immortality. Once his wrath takes full control, he could regenerate and heal any signs of injury to keep himself alive. To keep his energy, and his lust for blood.

The ear he snipped off of Catherine Eddowes needed to be disposed of. Any place he found wouldn't suffice. Instead, he decided to hide it in the one place nobody could ever find. He had difficulty eating it, but he made it work.

If there was a single benefit from his wrath, at least it made him immune to feelings of disgust.

Lastly, his bloodied coat was taken off. Fortunately for him, it was a coat worn by the majority of men in London. It didn't take him long to find an identical coat hung outside a window. With a quick swap, he was back to normal. Dumping his bloodied coat down the recently constructed sewer system, he was able to walk down the road away from the murder.

His mind would casually return to him, leaving him unaware of what had just happened.

His wrath found every possible way to hide any evidence and keep him unaware of his actions. But now that he was finally satisfied, the truth had to be revealed. He has to live with the horrible feeling of guilt for the rest of his life. To forever remember that he is a man of wrath, and it will always define him.

It is his sin and curse after all.

The killings haunted him to the point that staying in the country felt wrong. He had to leave, he couldn't risk any more deaths.

Once his breathing calmed down, he grabbed his hat and stood up. Very slowly, he walked towards the center of the room. Then he took one final glance at the woman he had mercilessly slaughtered.

"Jesus." He tried to speak, struggling to mutter another word. "I- I'm sor..."

Alas, he couldn't say it. His tears returned, as he found himself looking away. Despite having so much he wanted to say, not a single word could come out of his mouth. Therefore, he wasted no more time.

Beside him was the knife he dropped. Without hesitation, he picked it up and concealed it in his pockets. He couldn't leave it behind as evidence, nobody could know of his crime.

He disappeared without a trace into the night. By the time the police became aware of Mary Kelly's murder, Michael was already long gone. He had packed most of his personal belongings and left the country altogether. After what had happened, he could never show his face again. He never spoke to Valerie after the final murder, in fear of losing control and hurting her.

There was only one place on Earth he could return to. His cold, ancient and broken down home of his in Ireland. However, upon his return, he discovered that it ceased to exist. The remnants of his home were lost to the brutality of time itself. Only a few stones remained.

To his surprise, he spotted a new structure on the horizon. Overlooking the Cliffs of Moher in Hag's Head, was a stone watchtower belonging to Napoleon's disbanded army. It was completely abandoned, overrun by birds that turned it into their nest.

For over ten long years, he lived alone in the watchtower. Each day, he mourned the deaths of each woman he had slaughtered, never forgiving himself for them in the process. It was the worst moment of his life so far, as he felt he had betrayed even himself.

He carried the heart of Mary Kelly with him, keeping it in the tower. It wasn't a trophy, rather it was a reminder of his undying wrath. Observing her heart, he would never forget why her life had come to an abrupt end. He had no one but himself to blame for her untimely death.

Additionally, he walked towards the edge of the cliffside during a heavy thunderstorm. Staring down the two hundred meter drop, he reached into his breast pocket to grasp the very knife he used in his final murder. He didn't need to think twice before hurling the knife over the edge.

The world never knew Jack the Ripper's true identity, and Michael never revealed himself as the killer. It's a secret he will keep until the end of time itself, and he'll take it to his grave; if that ever comes.

Taking one final look down the cliff, he made up his mind.

He did the only reasonable thing left.

After the knife, he hurled himself forward.

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Historical Notes:

Of the several murders taken place during this time against female prostitutes, only five were linked to Jack the Ripper. All the murders were committed within a mile away from each other.

A map of the Five Canonical Murders

There were over a hundred suspects in the Jack the Ripper case. Numerous theories hint that the Ripper may have been a police officer, a doctor, an upper class citizen, or multiple people altogether. The possibility that Jack the Ripper had a cult of several killers committing murders in his name is a widely popular theory.

This chapter was initially written in 2021, long before the confirmation of the Ripper's identity in early 2025. Though scientists claim to have discovered the Ripper's true figure, some historians are still doubtful as they say some of the evidence doesn't match the timeline or forensics of the case. 

As of now, the Ripper's true identity is still considered a mystery. But scientists claim the real man behind the murders was a twenty-three year old Polish immigrant named Aaron Kosminski. 

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