The Ripper

The streets of London are as dimly lit as ever. The wench is starting on her way home. She doesn’t know I’m watching. I start my usual routine; start following her from a distance, pull out my knife, double check that the blade is still sharp, then wait for the perfect moment. The wench still hasn’t noticed me. The wind starts to pick up; the lanterns’ flames become shaky. Next, The wind picks up even more, taking out all the lanterns on the streets. It’s time. I start silently speeding up until I am at a full sprint. I outstretch my right arm in front of me, My palm facing the target. I reel back my left hand, point the blade at her, and then thrust it forward into her spine. She falls to the ground, bleeding. The cut wasn’t deep enough to kill, but it did mostly paralyze her. They’re no fun if they’re dead before they know what’s happening, after all. She tries to scream, but she’s to scared to let anything out. I flip her over, so that she was on her back.
I caressed her cheek with the blade, leaving a small cut; she turned her head away. I raised the knife, then brought it down on her neck. I get off of the wench to watch her struggle to close the puncture in her windpipe. She starts to slow, then stops. The next morning, the police find the woman blanketed in her own innards.