The End to the Beginning
A tall, lengthy man having been shot muttered as he fell to the cold stone ground, blood pooling beneath him, "Well done…."
The man who had just pulled the trigger, letting go of his humanity, simply stood watching with a look of terror and sadness that could only be described as denial. His hands trembled as the weight of the smoking gun grew heavy in his grip. He knew what he had done, and he also knew there was no taking this back.
Years Prior
July 12th, 1888, in the outskirts of Springfield lay an orphanage housing over 25 orphans, its weathered brick walls supported by donations from the wealthy nobles of Springfield. The morning air was thick with summer heat, and dust particles danced in the shafts of sunlight streaming through cracked windows.
"Alright, wake up, everyone!" Ms. Florence shouted as she opened the creaking door to the room the children were sleeping in. The hinges groaned in protest, echoing through the stuffy dormitory where small bodies stirred on thin mattresses.
Her loud and energetic voice slowly woke them up, regardless of how sleepy they felt. Children rubbed their eyes and stretched, the floorboards creaking beneath their movements.
"Go ahead and prepare, then once you are done, come assemble in the dining hall for breakfast." They all shuffled to the bathroom sinks, splashing cool water on their faces, went and brushed their teeth with worn bristles, washed their faces, and changed into proper clothes that Ms. Florence had carefully prepared the night before.
Ms. Florence welcomed everyone in the dining hall with a bright, warm smile that seemed very appropriate for the hot, sunny day. The room smelled faintly of old wood and yesterday's bread. They all sat around the long old brown wooden table that had custom-made chairs made of the same material, each piece worn smooth by countless meals and conversations.
Upon sitting down, they received even less food than the day prior: a piece of bread with butter and half a glass of milk mixed with a bit of water. The bread was stale at the edges, and the watery milk barely filled the bottom of their chipped cups. As everyone was eating without a single complaint, as they had all grown accustomed to this breakfast, even the little ones did not even seem sad or complacent—this was simply another day at the orphanage. Their hollow cheeks and the way their clothes hung loose spoke of their constant hunger.
As everyone was busy eating their food, Ms. Florence slowly got up with a slightly sad expression. She then began to speak with her eyes looking down, too disappointed in herself and the rich noblemen of Springfield to look the children in the eye.
"Everyone, lately we haven't been getting enough donations…to buy food to get us through the month, which means we need a way to raise money…" Her voice wavered slightly, the words catching in her throat like bitter medicine.
Ms. Florence, with a look of sadness and still unable to make eye contact, continued, "So I was thinking Azazel, Devonte, and Griselda could each get part-time jobs in order to raise enough money at the expense of skipping their studies." The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sound of horses' hooves on the dusty street outside.
Ms. Florence continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "I am sorry, you three, but we have no other choice. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me."
Griselda excitedly stood up, pushing her chair back in the process with a loud scrape against the wooden floor, and shouted, "Don't worry about it, Ms. Florence! We can do this! Devonte talks to an old man in the city a lot, and he owns a flower shop. If we ask, I am sure there is something we could help him with." Her voice rang with youthful determination, bringing a flicker of hope to the dim room.
September 30, 1888
A woman lay brutally murdered in the slums of Springfield, her body sprawled across the grimy cobblestones. The flickering gaslight cast eerie shadows on the brick walls, while the stench of blood filled the damp air.
"Boss, do you think this is him?" asked the young assistant, his voice trembling as he covered his nose with a handkerchief against the overwhelming sight.
"Yes, it's him, no doubt about it…" said the detective, grunting and clenching his fists with frustration. His weathered face was grim in the lamplight, years of chasing shadows etched in the lines around his tired eyes.
"The deep cut to the throat, the surgical removal of organs… It's him. Jack the Ripper." The words hung in the foggy morning air like a death sentence, while somewhere in the distance, church bells tolled the midnight hour.
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