Everything was on fire and it wasn't my fault.
It was his. The man whom deemed it a sane act to hunt and slaughter every prostitute he came across. The 'Ripper' of lives, of family's, of souls, acts that have earned him his cursed title.
This man, no, he is no man. Nor is he a being conceived by God that could ever be considered redeemable. This demon from the darkest pits of hell, released into the mortal world passing his corrupted judgement, preying on the weak and defenceless.
Who, more so than my own mother, is so defenceless. My sweet mother who had fallen to such filthy acts to provide for her baby and myself. 'A dangerous time for women' they call our era and they are right, as my mother's body lays on the cold, snowy, ground of London, I am reminded of how true that statement really is.
My baby sister has been taken away from me, sent off to a family who can provide for her. While I, of the young but adult, age of 19 must provide for myself, never to see my sister again. I can only pray that the curse of a murdered family member shall never backfire onto her, one so young will probably not remember it anyway, nor shall she remember me. Perhaps one day, if the Gods permit it, I will be blessed with the sight of her once more.
I now stand in front of my late mothers grave, for a poor family I couldn't afford very much, certainly not what she deserved. My blessed mother, her passing marked by a measly wooden cross, a bouquet of roses laying in front of it. A mixture of white and red, reflecting her love, courage and humility.
My mother who loved me and my sister unconditionally. My mother who had the courage to stand up to her attacker for as long as she did. My mother who never thought herself as important, yet thought the world of her daughters.
My sweet angel of a mother didn't deserve what she was given, she didn't deserve murder. Not over a stupid box that her 'client' gave to her. She told me about that box, a box that would scare a grown man. A simple word engraved into the lid that brings death where ever it goes. The box that contains all the worst things in the world in it. A box I now have possession of.
So now I sit in an ally, tall Victorian buildings surrounding me, shielding me from Gods great light. This is not Gods work, tonight, the devils duty is my own. Donned in a long fancy dress flowing around my crossed legs. A shimmer of navy blue shining in the moonlight. Each little sequin acting as a mirror of protection. A black pistol lay in my left hand, the devils hand, a dominant hand that only a servant of hell could posses. A cursed box tucked into my right arm.
Come get it Jack. Come to me and retrieve your prize. Pandora is waiting for you....