The Ripper's Wife

16

The papers were full of the most ghastly murder in London, in Whitechapel no less. It made me shudder to think of it occurring in the same spot where Alfred and I had had our first tryst. Some poor woman of the streets had been ripped open and gutted like a fish. I read every word, even though I knew I was courting bad dreams and a queasy stomach. I could not stop thinking about that poor soul. Who was she and why had she fallen so low down in life that she could never claw her way back up again?

What manner of man had done this awful thing? Did he know her and bear her some personal grievance or did she merely have the misfortune to cross paths with a madman with a lust for blood coursing through his soul? Were the horrors he inflicted upon her body truly meant for her, or was he merely acting out his anger on the first unfortunate woman who crossed his path at an opportune moment?

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know unless the monster is caught,” I said to Jim on one of those rare mornings when we found ourselves facing each other across the breakfast table, me with dark-circled eyes after another restless night and the toast turning to ashes in my mouth as I put the latest edition of the Liverpool Daily Post aside.

“I don’t suppose so.” Jim looked up at me and smiled as he spooned white arsenic into his tea. He raised his teacup to me as though it were a champagne toast. “Longevity and fair complexion, my dear!” he said, and drained it to the dregs. He stood up, readying to leave for his office, and bent down and kissed me. The moment he was gone I bolted from my chair and vomited into the nearest flowerpot. I just could not bear for him to touch me!