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August touched his face softly through a pane of glass. The reflection of his dull grey eyes, lit by a lone candle, stared back at him. His thin lips spread over crooked teeth. The eyes in the mirror looked up to scrutinize his long brown hair, which was now tied back into a ponytail. Pulling his glasses into place, he moved out into the moonlight.
It was September 30th, 1888, and the papers were still buzzing about the killing almost twenty days before. The names the public had given him were somehow satisfying. The Whitechapel murderer was one of them, though not his favorite.
He breathed in the chilly night air, thick fog. Walking quickly, the streets of East London where quiet and calm as far as August could tell. His ‘work’ would be easy enough tonight. In this weather, there wouldn’t be many about. He’d gone through most of medical school, but he did drop out when he could no longer stand the voices screaming at him. He was meant for this kind of work. It kept the voice happy at least. Moving in backstreets where the women, his prey, dwelled, August lured the attention of a few of them as they teased, unaware of who he was.
He nodded toward one, a tall elegant woman with brown hair and a crooked smile, flashed a mischievous grin, and ducked into an alley. He heard the unsteady heels against the cobblestone over the pounding heartbeat in his ears. The alley was darker than the moonlit street, but he was still able to see silhouettes through the haze. He dropped into the shadow behind a garbage can and waited until the painted woman stepped past him before…
August pounced, his fingers closing around her neck, pressing into the flesh. The girl struggled, but couldn’t scream, her airway squeezed shut by his digging fingers. After her body went limp, he eased her down and slipped the slender knife out of his sock. Moving to her right, he pressed the knife against the opposite side of her neck until the skin broke. The blood spewed in tiny droplets against the garbage can, which glinted in the dim light. He wiped the knife on his sock, and jumped at the sounds behind him. He moved back hiding in the shadow of the trash can.
“Elizabeth?” The new girl murmured, stumbling slightly. She didn’t even see the dead woman laying not five feet from where she was walking. It was too dark to see her, which helped as August crept up behind her. His fingers slipped and he cursed as she turned around, taking in a breath to scream.
The murderer’s eyes froze on her face, blonde hair, matted and falling in her face, and deep green eyes. The voice was shrieking, but it was not coming from the woman. That voice came from the other man in his head, the one that had taken over. The scream grew louder as his fingers slammed against her skin. He felt the bone at the back of her neck as her eyes grew wider, his fingers forcing themselves into the skin. Her dulling eyes stared at him for a long time even after she finally stopped moving.