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THE FINAL CONFESSION OF JACK THE RIPPER
By Tim Evers

I have washed my hands clean. She is such a pitiful sight. Didn't struggle or fight back. She did scream though. If anyone heard, they'll think it's just one of her nightly calls. Yes, this is her blood I write with. Might as well.

Why?

I have nothing left. My washed hands are empty. I search my mind and find nothing left. My soul is no longer heavy. No feeling. With my index finger I touched the tip of my knife and I bleed, but felt nothing. I did not flinch. Nothing.

My autumn is done. My shadow will leave me tonight and crawl the streets, whilst I vanish into darkness, into myself. For I am the darkness. At night, where ever you turn I will be there. In the back of your mind you will see my face. I flash from my knife. But, I'm gone, yet I stay.

I am a God. The fact is proof. It has just occurred to me. I will always be. Tonight when I vanish into fog, the people will always remember me. I am here. I am there. I am now. I am then. I will always be.

Bring the darkness to me. Bring the shadow to me. Let my blood pour. Let it flow from every vein. Let the cobblerstone be soaked with mine and theirs. Let the stench kill all. My power is never ending. The world is my servant.

I shall fold this confession of my existence and place it near my breast, my heart. I disappear now.

Yours truly,
Jack The Ripper

9 November, 1888

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