The date was Thursday, 8 November 1888. Only one day before Ethan’s return through the Flicker doorway, only one victim remaining, he woke early, just before nine in the morning, with his singular mission in mind. It seemed like years since he had been in the 21st Century. He still had the presence of mind to realize that the things Time had forced him to do during his visit here had warped and twisted his thought process about the world, both worlds. Professor Ethan LaPierre would not return through the portal the same man he was before he made the leap of faith into the past. After everything he had done and all he’d experienced while there in 1888 Whitechapel, he’d not just profoundly changed, he had become an entirely different man. It would require every last ounce of energy to suppress the newfound rage and silence his addiction to it. He laid very still, lost in the ether, lost in time itself.

Ethan knew he would have to conceal his amorous inclination toward his young Maggie, should he see her again. As a strong motivation during his undertakings in the 19th Century, she was now and forever a part of it but would remain unaware of the roll she’d played in his mind’s eye during this mindless abandon of reason over these past months. He would play these events like a poker hand, close to the vest. He’d bluff his way through the debriefing, knowing all too well that the truth would hurt many, mostly him. Ethan knew he could not risk the possibility that they would not understand that he did what he had to do. With that thought he rolled out of bed. It was time.

His final day began by laying out three complete ensembles of clothing on the bed: what he would wear for the day’s preparations, what he would wear that night for his interlude with Mary Kelly and finally, what he’d be dressed in for his return home. Once outfitted in his local attire, Ethan’s first order of business was to go to the bank on Whitechapel Road and withdraw his remaining funds. He’d planned to seek out the manager to offer a bribe of sorts. By means of a “charitable donation” made in cash (one at the man’s discretion to distribute), Ethan wanted all record of his account discarded. It needed to disappear with him. His best guess? The money would disappear, going directly into the banker’s pockets. It was not uncommon in the 19th Century (nor even the 21st for that matter) to buy someone’s loyalty and his expectation of the manager did not go unrealized. He was in and out of that bank in no time with what money he needed in hand, all the remaining funds gone but not forgotten by a banker perfectly willing to keep his mouth shut for a price.

Returning to his room, occasionally peeking down the stairs, Ethan waited until everyone in the lodging house had stopped by the kitchen for lunch before moving on. After the traffic died down he went there to set up a large pot to boil and sterilize all of his surgical instruments, with the exception of the eight-inch blade. His plans for the day were underway. Once they were thoroughly cleansed, any contaminants removed, he dried them as well, neatly placing them into the duplicate medical bag he’d purchased for his trip back into the future. He had to be methodically prepared for any contingency, ready in advance to make the leap. Knowing he’d have ample time mattered not as Ethan was obsessed with the details of his mission. The Flicker doorway would still be wide open for the full twenty-four hours of November ninth, to allow enough time for him to return at his leisure without feeling rushed. Acting in haste due to a smaller window of opportunity, too brief of an access period could cause critical mistakes to be made. Ethan had considerable time to think everything through, including what he would do once he returned to the future.

By the completion of his outdoor errands, he’d already begun to feel the bitter cold setting into his bones as the sun began setting. The rain had moved in, dowsing him enough to require a change of attire earlier than expected. Redressing into his “work” clothes for the final encounter of his stay, he stared into the mirror, thinking “This is who Mary Kelly will meet in a matter of hours...when she meets her fate.” Cold and calculating, he snickered at the image then moved away from the looking glass. He’d seen enough. As each task was completed, his pocket watch continually kept pace to tick-tock away the minutes, the excruciating hours of anticipation. As he waited an anxiety revisited him, once again building to a crescendo, a fever pitch. Undefined and uncontrollable, the same feeling that consumed his consciousness the previous night returned with a vengeance. It didn’t fall neatly into a category or a subset of emotions but was instead, an integral part of the equation. Not fear, not dread, more like butterflies fluttering about in the pit of his stomach, much like the feeling one has before embarking on a first date with a new partner. Thinking about it, Ethan decided it was all part of the play, that sensation one gets while waiting in the wings, waiting for his cue to step onstage, as if for the first time, but it was not stage fright. No. He knew his lines, his part in the play. Every cue, every mark, each and every move he would make, all committed to memory. Ethan even knew when and where to exit the scene of the crime and yet, still, there it was again, taking up residence in his gut, lodged in his throat.

Packed and ready to go, on his mark, Ethan still had nearly six hours before his stage cue. He used the time wisely to finish writing a pack of lies in his fake journal. Having been not in the least hard-pressed to find the identical diary with the leather binding, same type of bond paper within, he found it readily available on the open market. Documenting the encounters with these five women in an entirely different way, Ethan scribed eight entries dating back to his initial arrival up to and including tonight’s “Scope” mission. He was meticulous, planning to name one of over thirty suspects in his report to appease The Consortium brass. Countless embellishments, bells and whistles, occupied his mind to pass the time while recording the fictional version of history. As he wrote, he found it harder than he thought to simply make up this story as he went along. In fact, he found the fiction rather boring, not nearly as fascinating as his true account of events. Generalizing these encounters, he wrote descriptively about having to stay hidden in the shadows without intervening while each woman was brutally murdered by this 19th Century killer. He filled in the gaps with his experiences of the smells of the city, the taste of the food, especially those bangers and mash he’d grown so fond of, sharing the raw experiences of being back in history. He wrote eloquently about how much time he spent secluded in his room, never exploring the streets and people of the time, never interacting with the police and certainly not having any personal interactions with any of the locals in any way, especially any of the victims. He created the perfect portrayal of the perfect Scope. Anything and everything The Consortium wanted and needed to know, the epitome of a Flicker Project done right. Lies, all lies. Yet it was not quite perfection, not yet. There was still one more mission. One more woman. One more victim. Ethan had killed her a hundred times in his mind. Detached from reality, he was ready to go.

There was no protocol, no training; no standard procedures for what Ethan had to improvise almost from the moment he stepped through the Flicker. All he had at the beginning were his wits and his knowledge but somewhere along the way he was introduced to a friend, an ally, a partner in crime. Time approached him in the manner befitting a newly discovered relative, a brother in arms constantly watching his back, front and sides for whatever was coming his way. Oh sure, like any brother of lesser age, Ethan was teased and tormented by Time but it was done out of love, to make him more of a man, to make him stronger, building his character.

It was nearing one in the morning on this rainy November 9, 1888. Finality and beginning merged. Ethan was unshaven, dressed up in his second to last physician’s suit he had bought in London back in September. Over it he wore the long coat with trimmed astrakhan collar and sleeves, in his hands a pair of leather gloves. Standing beneath an overhang as the rain began to subside, knowing his encounter with Mary Kelly would begin on this corner of Thrawl and Commercial, though guised in the doctor’s apparel, Ethan would not be carrying his medical bag for this meeting. He had only brought the blade of familiarity and assistance to him which was concealed in a roll of clean rags from a supply stored in his room, all of it then wrapped up in plain brown paper and twine which Ethan was holding under his left arm as a parcel. He had put on the red felt hat and pulled it nearly over his eyes. Here on Commercial Street on an early Friday morning there was more exposure than any of the locations where he had to meet with his victim. Traffic was considerable and he did not need to draw attention from anybody other than the players from history, one being Mr. George Hutchinson. The sole witness of his interaction with Mary Kelly, he was a local worker, hard up and hoping to receive pity from her, asking to give him “one” on credit. She, needing money herself, passed up his penniless offer for a far more lucrative one, both profitable and logical, a prime night engagement.

It was two in the morning when Ethan spotted Mary walking in his direction on Commercial Street. Lifting his head to reveal his face from beneath the brim of his hat, hoping she would remember their brief encounter the evening before, as Mary approached him she did, indeed, recognize the man who had helped her up from an embarrassing spill in the mud outside the candle shop. She stopped to talk with him, beaming with both gratitude and, considering his apparel, the hope of a potential customer.

“Sir?” She opened their discussion with a nod.

“I thought last night you took the term dirty work a bit too literally. Are you all right, lass?” He asked as he put his hand on her shoulder. They both laughed.

“All right.” Mary responded, lowering her head, still slightly humiliated.

Her thick, Irish brogue accent was the only discerning difference between her and Abigail, the other clone who was evidently cut from the same cloth. Her smile, her laugh, even the way she looked up at him with her big innocent eyes, she was astonishingly similar to the other girls. She leaned in towards his ear, rising to her toes to get closer as if to share a secret, whispering her message.

“I was beginning to wonder if you had a voice, as you didn’t speak a word last night. That was a shock to me, a man left speechless!”

“You’ll be alright for what I have told you.” Ethan joked as he kept his hand on her right shoulder.

They began walking together down Commercial Street toward Dorset. Ethan was well aware that Hutchinson would follow them all the way to Millers Court, as he testified to the local authorities. He would first eavesdrop then later report parts of the conversation he overheard between them. Ethan had the dialogue memorized. He knew he would have to pause, speaking with her at the entrance to Millers Court for about three minutes according to “the script”. Ethan needed to justify the parcel beneath his arm, the one concealing the long blade that had a destiny with its victim. Improvising the tale of a shy artist who wanted to sketch her lovely female form in the medium he carried in a wrapped package, he offered her a generous payment to do so. That the discourse was awkward, the whole rendezvous making him visibly uncomfortable added to the allure for the young woman.

“All right, my dear. Come along. You will be comfortable.” It was all the man, Hutchinson, could hear Mary say from their conversation.

Ethan put his arm around her then began to enter Millers Court. Mary turned to kiss his cheek. As she did so, she noticed a few drops of the earlier rain still clinging to his face. Reaching into her bag to retrieve a clean handkerchief to wipe him off, she realized it was missing.

“Oh! I seem to have lost my handkerchief.”

Ethan reacted immediately to her remark, pulling out his own red handkerchief then presenting it to her, the perfect gentleman. Under watchful eyes of the witness, the two of them headed down the narrow passage toward Mary’s room. Once again, the advantage went to Ethan knowing the play, lines memorized, all the players and points where the characters would make their exit. Historically, George Hutchinson would never pass by Mary’s room or dare to look inside. Instead, he would wait at the alcove in hope that Ethan was a quick customer and he would still have a chance to talk her into a complimentary carnal encounter. He would stay there waiting until three in the morning, leaving as a regional clock chimed in the distance. Ethan knew he’d be alone with Mary. He knew he’d be alone with her all night. He never broke continuity with cause, no matter how mad he’d become, a man on a mission.

“It’s nothing fancy, mind you.” She unlocked and opened her door.

Mary’s room had all the creature comforts of a prison cell. Police photographs of her death and the room she’d expired in were burned into Ethan’s brain from the hours of studying every detail, yet they served no justice to actually standing in this tiny domain. There was a twin-sized bed and bedside table to the right as he entered the room, a table flat against the opposite wall underneath two small windows, one of which was broken and covered over with rags and a man’s coat to keep the cold air outside from seeping in. A small fireplace hosting a tea kettle filled the opposite wall of the room from the entranceway. It was drab and dark, nothing cozy about it but to Mary, it was home. She leaned over to light her new half penny candle.

“Will you need more light to paint my portrait?”

“This will do for now.” Ethan said politely, uttering the prophetic words.

“You may take your coat off, if you’d like.” Mary began removing layers of her own clothing, comfortable in her own place, be it ever so humble. She was likewise comfy with him, the artist, excited about having her image rendered on canvas.

The fact that more than a month had passed since the “Double Event” occurred, doing business on the streets of Whitechapel had resumed to a certain extent. People began to let their guard down as things slowly but surely got back to normal. Mary’s lack of an inquiry pertaining to Ethan’s identity was proof enough. Evidently, he’d gained her trust in front of the candle shop. She never even asked his name, let alone that of an alter-ego, nor did he offer it. Mary’s guest was welcome in her home, not a hint she might suspect him of being Jack the Ripper. No. Not him.

“I’d rather keep it on for the time being if you don’t mind.” Ethan fumbled with the package beneath his arm as well as his words.

“If it’s to your liking, sir. Might you want me to build a fire to warm you?”

“No, thank you.” Placing the package down Ethan turned toward her. “Actually, on second thought, why don’t you go ahead, prepare one but don’t light it, not yet.”

Mary shrugged her shoulders and did as she was asked. With the chore finished a few minutes later, she walked over to Ethan. Looking up at him with her flirtatious smile, she spun around once in place like a schoolgirl showing off.

“No one ever asked to paint me before!”

Ethan refocused his attention on the package, unraveling the twine.

“Is there really paper and pastel in your parcel there that you’ll use to draw me, sir?” There was respect, reverence in her voice. After all, he was a professional, his manner of dress and his speech reassuring her of it. There was something different, something special about this man. He was not the usual local street vermin she had grown accustomed to and acquainted with over time.

“Yes, direct from France where I studied under the great artist, Ethan LaPierre.”

He dared the cosmos, risked using his own name as a blatant, arrogant challenge to the Universe. Ethan smiled knowingly. Deity. Untouchable. The director and the star of the play. His artistry would soon be displayed on the skin canvas of a young Irish lass. His artist’s brush would be in the form of a blade, as sharp as his memory.

“Afraid I don’t know much about art or France or anything else, for that matter.”

Mary joked lightheartedly at her own expense, a self-deprecating humor Ethan found charming as he smiled her way again. Continuing to disrobe while he looked on in silence, Mary took her time. She made an effort on Ethan’s behalf, seductively loosening up the strings of her blouse, dropping her skirt to the floor. Folding layers of clothing over a chair, her boots got propped by the fireplace. Once it was ignited, they’d be nice and warm for the morning. Mary would never see the glorious light of day again. When she’d reached the thinnest undergarment, he stopped her before completely undressing, leaving her in only a slightly tattered white cotton chemise.

“No, please. Leave this on. It will add a bit of mystery for the viewer.”

“Do you mean your painting, my likeness might become famous?”

“I assure you, it will.” He coyly replied.

Her implicit trust in him bore no relevance to Ethan. He was center stage, a role to play in history. Their scene was set and tonight, he’d be the “artist-in-residence”. This was to be Ethan’s final encounter, his masterpiece. Destiny placed him on that stage and handed him the perfect script. Directing himself to get on with it, the actor had a job to do. There he stood in that enclosed room with hour upon hour in which to do his detailed work. He asked Mary to position herself on the bed, lying on her back. She followed instructions well.

The night table next to the bed was elevated above the mattress, obscuring her vision of what was in the package Ethan was unwrapping on the top of it, prompting Mary’s curiosity. Trying to prop up on her elbows to see his instruments of artistry, Ethan put his hands on her shoulders and made the physical suggestion that she stay prone on the bed.

“Just wanted to see all the pretty colors.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you will, but only if you’re a good model and lie still for me.”

Ethan fiddled with the paper and loose rags hiding the knife to make it seem he was compiling his parchments in preparation for a rendering then he leaned toward her. “You do have a beautiful neckline. Would you mind turning your head to the right, facing the wall? I’d truly like to capture your profile.”

Flattered by the compliment, Mary acquiesced to his better judgment, an artistic flair for the dramatic, turning her head to face the opposite wall from the side of the bed where Ethan stood. Nothing but the portrait on her mind, it had been thirty-nine days since the Ripper last struck. For too many, making money was a much greater concern than a murderer in their midst, especially one who seemed to have vanished into thin air, until now. There was nothing else on her mind but fame and fortune.

Even though the broken window had been insulated in a makeshift manner, the cold night air still seeped into the room, causing a drop in temperature, enough that when Ethan dug the knife into the left side of Mary’s neck, steam pushed out from a deep wound, the heat of her blood escaping like a puff of smoke. Before she could utter a sound he covered her mouth with his hand then began rapidly sawing away at the flesh just below her jaw line and across her throat, creating the appearance of a crimson necklace. Blood sprayed out like a geyser, redirected by its impact with the sleeve of his coat, deflecting backward to the wall Mary’s bed was fixed against. After the initial spurts, pulsing up and out of her throat, it oozed instead, forming a pond. Her only attempt at thwarting the attack came instantly, bringing up her right hand as a reflex. Trying to scream, trying to free her mouth from Ethan’s palm, her hand met the blade, cutting the back of it wide open, slicing her thumb to the bone. Pulling it away in an instinctive reaction to the pain, Ethan went in for the kill. The blade’s persistent jagged motion gaining momentum, he leaned in harder, launching all of his weight behind the knife. Pressing on Mary’s face, desperately seeking the sound and physical sensation of the serrated blade meeting the bones of her vertebra to indicate his success, once detected, he drove it home with purpose, dragging the full length of the steel across her larynx, clear through to the left side of her throat. Ethan’s entire focus was on the immediate and lethal near-severing of her head. His visual focus, however, remained fixated on peering with pleasure into the windows of her soul. The expression in those eyes stabbed him right back, penetrating Ethan as deeply as the knife he’d plunged into her neck, maybe deeper, perhaps to his soul if one still existed at the core of a monster.

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” Ethan repeated the words with a whisper, as if lost in the throes of a passionate liaison, at the height of orgasm; an acknowledgement that what she was doing to him, for him, was a pleasure beyond all measure. As the blood escaped her body, what had been stolen from him the night of the double murders had been retrieved. It became an almost unbearable anticipation. Still holding his hand tightly over her mouth, the last moments of the life she cherished unfolding under Ethan’s knife were expressed by the intoxicating anguish in her eyes, that helpless gaze she shared with him as she stared from the left corners of their sockets. Mary could not scream. Any air remaining in her collapsing lungs seeped through that bloody gash, bubbling to the surface of a gaping wound in her neck before it could ever make it to her shredded vocal chords. Her eyes were doing the screaming. He could hear it, music to his eyes. A symphony orchestra, visual stimulation, a visceral composition rivaling the works of Mozart or Beethoven, its emotional complexities were astounding, a private concert of pain for an audience of one. Then Mary’s eyes went dead. This concert was over but he still had an encore performance of his own yet to come. He was satisfied with what he’d rendered thus far, enjoying his work.

Over the course of events, experiences he’d had while visiting the 19th Century, of all his interactions, the one constant conductor of the symphony, director of the stage and confidant of a killer was Time. Yes. Certainly there were moments when his accomplice was a benefit to Ethan but, as of late, he was growing weary of the tiresome constraints put upon him. This was the moment when Ethan would liberate himself, no longer a slave to the mere seconds and minutes Time allowed, no longer subject to its whims and flights of fancy. He’d been entrusted to sanctify the annals of history. This time he had power over Time. He would finally take what belonged to him during the expansive window of opportunity he had in which to do his work, to create his final masterpiece. He would have the hours, the privacy, the blade and the body of this young woman. Mary. She was his canvas, his model and his muse on which Ethan would paint the broad strokes and fine lines of history, writing her place in history in blood. It was 2:30 in the morning.

Unlacing her chemise undergarment in an erotic manner, it was no longer white, saturated with her blood. All the while, Ethan continued staring into her dead eyes. He fantasized about a scenario not unlike this between himself and young Maggie, but there would be no need to cut her throat. There would be no struggle, no disguise necessary. Ethan wouldn’t need to masquerade as an artist or anyone else. He could be himself and she would succumb, surrendering her will, her body and her life. He would make the role he’d play, his own. In time, he would have her all to himself, claiming her soul. He’d have to wait for Maggie Daley but would first exercise his patience on the form of the woman who now laid dead on the bed beside him as he sat on the edge, studying his blank canvas. Pulling away the chemise to expose her entire naked body, the darkness of the room obscured his view which would not do. He’d dealt with that when he had to perform his work on Catherine Eddowes in the shadows of a London street, relying strictly upon Time to guide his hand exactly in accordance with what history had recorded. No. Ethan would not allow his invisible ally to dictate the conditions of the final, most detailed work he’d been tasked with, so he stood from the bed, retrieving the half penny candle she had bought previously when she’d done her muddy-Maggie impression outside the candle shop. Carefully moving it across from the table to the bedside, requiring more than ambient “mood” lighting, he sought out another candle. Finding one half-burned but still very useful, he lit it as well then placed it on the bedside table, illuminating the nude, motionless body of Mary Kelly. Adequate for his purposes, Ethan stood above her, assessing, planning the work, a role he’d have to perform, taking his time, for quite some time. He drew from memory, every written report and photographic detail of the death of the woman in front of him, charged with duplicating or rather, repeating the episode to precise specifications. Postmortem descriptions chronicled by Dr. Thomas Bond and Dr. George Bagster Phillips allowed him to burn into memory every disfiguring cut that had been made, that he’d have to do. Ethan’s arrogance reemerged with his determination for absolute accuracy.

Enlisting the long coat as a buffer between the blood and the clothing he had on underneath it, Ethan pulled Mary’s body closer to the edge of the bed nearest him then turned her face to the left. In his mind, even in death, she could still watch his mastery as long as her eyes were open. Picking the knife back up from the table, he then positioned his left knee between the now open and separated legs of his victim. Reaching up with his right hand, he grabbed her right breast and pulled it up from her body, providing a defining line to use as a guide then began slicing it from her ribs, quite like old western tales of Native American’s scalping their mortal enemies. Cutting in a circular pattern around, under the breast tissue, all the while pulling the nipple and surrounding skin straight up and back towards Mary’s face, he cut until he completely severed the breast, leaving in place only the exposed ribs and thorax. Almost fully off balance, Ethan caught himself in a tumble with his right arm, breast in hand, just above Mary’s left shoulder, her dead eyes staring at her own body part. He quickly repositioned himself, repeating the act in the removal of her left breast. He held the second one in his hand, seemingly weighing it in as a “pound of flesh”, amazed by both the texture and heaviness of it.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to carry these around all day.” He said in jest.

Ethan turned and placed the second breast down near her right foot then jabbed the tip of the blade into her calf about five inches above the ankle and just pulled in through the skin and tissue up to her knee. He then turned his focus to fileting away the surface on down to the bone from her right knee along the inner thigh up to and partially including her right buttocks. Standing next to the bed, he then performed the same cut on her opposite inner thigh. Laying the knife beside her for a moment, he turned to the bedside table, gathering the rolled out brown paper and rags he had used to conceal the knife, moving the package over to the table by the window. He returned to the bed, lifting each fileted portion of her inner thighs, laying them flat, neatly on the mostly vacant bedside table, careful not to disturb the burning candles. Once a man on a mission, now a monster in a methodical mode, engrossed with the procedure, there wasn’t a single shred of human decency in the horrible acts he was performing, no hint of remorse. Even psychopaths would deem him a psychopath.

Stepping over to the rags, Ethan grabbed one to wipe the blood from his hands, as it was making it slippery to hold her skin and the knife handle. Meticulous in his madness, he repeatedly wrapped the rag around each finger, to clean every crevice, any place in which it had already begun to coagulate. While doing so, he peered out the small windowpanes overlooking Millers Court, thinking about how beautiful it was at that time of the morning, how lovely the wet cobblestone appeared, a street illuminated by gaslight streetlamps. Across the courtyard were two adorable kittens rummaging through a few discarded wooden restaurant crates. It made Ethan smile. He watched them playfully scurry around for several minutes before backing away, viewing his own distorted reflection in the rippled glass. Staring into his own eyes, into the mind of a madman, he walked over to the fireplace then set the rag atop the tinder Mary prepared for him in advance, planning to warm and comfort her artist.

Before continuing his required chores, Ethan hovered over her disfigured form, focusing his eyes on the area where both elongated cuts along her inner thighs met. Unaware of his facial expression while he stared at the woman’s vagina, it disturbed him to imagine how many men had penetrated this twenty-five year old. Imagining all sorts paying for the pleasure of what was, at least at one time, a sanctified orifice intended for the union of two people in love. Was it fifty? Was it a hundred men or more who had stuck her with an unclean erection along their return from a night of drinking or a stinky, sweaty work shift? Who would want her? He was doing Mary a favor and perhaps dissuading other women who were considering this line of work by discouraging them from walking the streets, instilling the fear they would be the next to be butchered. Perhaps his work in this Dark Age had even affected the future decisions of young Maggie, history influencing her personal story as cosmic ripples resonating in the 21st Century. The vast majority of men who worked with her down in The Valley at the Flicker trials, including Colin, wanted her and would fuck her if she let them for a price. She could retire, not wanting to continue her education. In the depths of his warped, twisted mind, he fathomed himself her Savior, perhaps performing a public service for all womankind, it had been a true labor of his love for the opposite sex.

Ethan picked the knife back up from the edge of the bed and went back to work with even more focused, resolute determination. Using his right hand, he felt around her torso, finding the costal arch between the ribs where he would continue cutting. He first cut into her abdomen just below the sternum, making the incision just wide enough for Ethan to stick the four fingers of his right hand down into it, right up to the knuckles, giving enough of a hold of the skin and tissue to pull up at it and away from the body. The temperature in the room was biting cold. Resting his hand inside of her for a few moments to warm his fingers, he then lifted the gap and continued in a sawing motion along the line below the ribcage on each side. Before the section became too long and hard to hold onto, he carved a large section off by slicing across her stomach, freeing the section of flesh, allowing him to place it neatly on the table atop the two filets of thigh already there. The surface of the small table became his personal butcher block as he cut away the rest of the exterior of her midsection then down to the pubic area, carving the large piece in two, again for easier handling. In time, he’d place those pieces on the table, as well. The dual action of slicing, pulling away the flesh reminded Ethan of a tough fatty steak he once had at a pub in Bristol, no doubt attributed to Mary’s younger, tighter form as opposed to the others he had ravaged, all of whom were almost double her age. It could also be that by now, with time to spare, applying more painstaking scrutiny to his work, he was more attentive to every detail permeating all of his senses in the confines of this private little room. A visible steam lifted from the viscera into the chilled air. The smell of bowels and blood filled Ethan’s nostrils, as it had with his previous victims. The odors of death had become a familiar, almost intoxicating aroma to him, the scent of a woman.

Placing the knife between Mary’s legs, with all her internal organs exposed, he needed to recreate the photograph he had memorized from the police and historical files. Using both hands, Ethan lifted her intestines out of her body cavity, placing them on the right side of her torso next to her hip, only grabbing the knife to sever the connective tissue, completely removing them from her abdomen. He’d take his time removing her uterus and kidneys, positioning them along with her right breast beneath her head like a fleshy pillow. He cut out her liver, laying it at her feet then removed her spleen and placed it to her left side on the bed. Once again, he put the knife down to gather up a few rags to wipe off his hands and the handle of the knife. Like an artist in his studio he took a few steps back from the body, his body of work in progress to inspect it, making certain of the precise positioning of the organs and segments of flesh he had removed to identically duplicate the historical photographs of the crime scene.

Suddenly Ethan felt a little hungry, having worked up quite an appetite. Taking a break, he was able to find some leftover fish and potato Mary had from her earlier meal near the fireplace. He took a pause from the work and stood, pensively peering once more out the window. The kittens were gone. He picked at a small package of food as if he were relaxing at some park on a sunny day without a care in the world. There was no pressure from Time in this place. No interruptions or constraints. He could quietly work, savoring every bite as well as every nuance of the event, a final required effort in commitment to the instilled Scope directive to maintain historical integrity, creating a scene in its original conditions before exiting the stage. Taking one last bite, wiping his hands on his overcoat, Ethan turned back toward the lifeless corpse lying on the bed. He wasn’t done with her, not yet. Poised on the edge of the bed, careful not to sit on the spleen at her hip, he leaned in close to her face to speak with a ghastly figure, a mangled ghost.

“Thanks for the meal.” He said softly before leaning in, kissing her on the lips.

Abruptly pulling away, in spite of the fact that she wasn’t protesting his intimate advance, he paused to reflect on her eyes. Realizing for the first time that Mary did not have green eyes like his Maggie, he’d found himself shocked by the revelation. Instead, her eyes were pure blue, as deep as the sea; liquid crystalline blue eyes. He leaned back in and kissed her once more, running his tongue across her motionless lips. He tried. He really tried to make it work between them, but she was no Maggie. She was too easy. She was a whore.

The word “rage” is usually reserved for the irrational actions of the sane. What was building inside Ethan went far beyond this description, well beyond reason. He began shaking violently from the anger he felt, the kind of anger only betrayal could manifest. Grabbing the blade once more, Ethan leaned back in towards Mary’s face, but not for another kiss. Mumbling under his breath, he brought the knife up to her eyes as if to show her the object of his vengeance.

“You bloody bitch!” Gritting his teeth, the words spewed as pure venom. “Fake, fucking slut. You are not my Maggie. You will never be her. I see your façade. You will not fool me again. You will not look like her, not anymore.” He then proceeded with her defacement, vile and vulgar in his intent.

He dug the knife deeply into her lips in vertical cuts, puncturing, shredding and spreading apart the tissue, running down to her chin with cavernous cuts due to the blade length and its force. He then shoved the blade through her upper lip, piercing her nose cartilage. An overwhelming rage, the raw emotion of it caused him to cry. Mary was a bitch, a common slut. They were all disgusting bloody whores and they deserved what they got from him. They deserved more but as Time had cheated him with the others, this one would have to suffer the justified indignities for all the rest of them. He continued, slicing off her nose, serrating the skin atop her cheekbones. Her eyebrows were carved away as he kept cutting, slashing across her face until nothing was left of her identity but a mixture of twisted flesh and tissue and muscle. As his tears flowed like blood, Ethan stood from the bed, slashing along both of her arms, lashing out in animated ways, the inner pain of these women toying with his mind and his heart. His heart! Ethan stuck his right hand back through the incision, past Mary’s sternum, grasped her aorta, pulling down as he applied the knife to its connective tissue, freeing her heart from its valves. Since she fucked with his heart he would tear hers out of her inert body. He stood up, backing away from the gutted shell of a carcass, placing the heart and the knife on top of the rags and brown paper set open on the table near the window.

“Oh! Murder!” Hearing the cry from outside, Ethan peeked through the window expecting to spy a witness gawking inside at the gruesome scene. Nothing. Perhaps it did sound too far away for someone to have been peering in. He began to wonder if, in his rage, the outcry was again in his head, like the cries of “murderer” he heard in his room on Bakers Row. Still keeping vigilant watch at the window, Ethan took the lower part of his coat, lifting it up to his face to wipe away his obstructing tears with the fabric lining. Dropping it down again, the wool brushed against the chain of his watch, reminding him to check the time. 4:04 a.m.

What little light emitted from the candles on the table or the streetlamps outside, Ethan noticed the expected bloodstains on the fabric of his coat. He took one more rag from the parchment paper and washed his hands clean as best he could with the water from the kettle in the fireplace then dried them with the rag before throwing it into the tinder along with the blood-drenched coat, extra papers, rags and finally, Mary Kelly’s heart. By striking a match from the matchbox nearby, he ignited all the items in the fireplace. As the fire began building higher, Ethan could better see his artwork in the room as he began to carefully and perfectly position the body in the manner it would be discovered later that morning. Turning her head to the right side, her left arm across her gaping stomach, her legs spread and the right knee bent, applying the images of history burnt into his psyche, to set the scene “as is”, there to be revealed to the horrified witnesses and authorities due to arrive in several hours, this final fait accompli for the world to accept. Yet, he was likewise burning new memories as he paused for a time, staring at what was once a woman, gazing at his work, his dirty but necessary job well done. It was his masterpiece of origination and replication in its truest and highest form of flattery to the original artwork which, as it turned out, was an original creation of his own, after all. Admiring the view, it was almost beautiful as an act of perfect evil. Light cast by a now raging fire revealed something he missed in the darkness, bloodstains still remaining on his hands.

Daring the risks of overstaying his welcome and tainting his gilded association with Time, he stayed lost in the moment, reflecting on the fact that “it” was all done! For more than two months he had survived an existence in the past. It was a journey begun with the most invisible of intentions, planned to perfection. It simply wasn’t the plan of history to give this traveler such a pass. The frightening fee was his soul and mind to fulfill the predestined, ordained ordeal of ritualistically and gruesomely murdering these five women. Ethan stood silently still in the tiny room with his last victim when internally the sudden shock wave of implication and condemnation hit him like a meteor from the sky and brought him to his knees.

There was, for an instant, a glimpse of his former “self”, before his hands were forced into this heinous role and subsequent perversions of character and morality. It manifested itself in a momentary panic attack as he struggled for oxygen. Ethan’s chest tightening, his vision constricting into a tunnel form, he closed his eyes and recalled his training in self-discipline with the military brigade officers of the FTC. The training he had received was meant for a much more benign scenario but it was nonetheless adaptable to any case, including gathering himself in the aftermath of his actions, realizations and forthcoming role he would have to play upon his return home. Amidst the insanity and loss of identity over these many weeks, Ethan could still muster enough of a scientific mindset to understand one thing. He had to return through the Flicker. He never existed in this time in history. He was never here. He was only a stain like the stains on his hands and immortal soul. He was only a visitor in time and it was time for him to go home.

Opening his eyes, he had effectively regained control of his breathing and focus on what still needed to be done. His confidence restored to its distorted proportions, he rose to his feet to take one more look around the room to make sure it was truly picture perfect for the local authorities to find. The fireplace was fully ablaze with the burning evidence. It was the proper time to say goodbye to Mary Jane Kelly, to the room, to this world and to this century.