Chapter 3 Authors Note: Every time I watch From Hell again I have this inane urge to write something for it. Never mind that I have two stories already, no, I have to keep thinking of more, right? Lol

Authors Note 2: After you read the first two paragraphs you'll say, what the hell IS this? But I promise that if you stick with it, at least to my point of view, it gets better. I hope you think so too, and if you don't? Flame away, feel free.

Love and grief; strange how those two work together so wondrously. Love creeps up slowly ensnaring the senses until it consumes entirely every living, breathing part man has to give.

It makes the sprit leap and bound, one who falls under love's spell sees the world in an entirely different view. Love makes men attempt the unattempted, risk anything that can be lost, and perform what otherwise couldn't be done.

It can take one from the top of paradise to the dregs of hell in one fell swoop. The mind whirls with it's magic until all rational thought is gone, swept away in waves of pure unadulterated bliss. Blind to all faults and unseeing of flaw it makes men puppets to it's will, they are content with how things are and will fight if any would dare to try and change them.

Love is a beautiful thing, none can live long without it or last without searching for it in some form or another. There are many forms of love; parents to their children, men and their women, religious believers in their deities, and some people with their animals.

Many of its shapes, forms, and appearances are found on the face of the earth. One doesn't have to look hard in order to find it, true love is a rare occurrence but real nonetheless.

Grief is love's complete opposite. It doesn't allow any time to be used to the situation, it commands attention and makes it impossible to normally function. The mind is so completely preoccupied with it that nothing else matters anymore. Men have taken their own lives in order to escape the heart-wrenching feeling of being totally and utterly alone.

It spares no expense and makes no excuses, the person is gone never to return. Somehow that just doesn't sit well with people, they can't accept that there is nothing more they can do. It makes them question their own mortality and the fact that the only think keeping them alive is about the size of their fist.

Pumping away in the center of their chests, it is the only thing that protects them from the cold hand of death. What awaits those who have already been taken? That's a universal question, is it pearly white gates or roads paved in gold? White winged women strumming harps and singing, or an iced road of fire in a dimension too horrible to imagine?

Grief is the master of mind-tricks, it makes people lose all sense of time and the capacity to move on with their lives. What is it's purpose exactly if not to remind them daily of who is now lost to them for as long as their hearts serve to keep them alive. There is no joy in life anymore, no icing on the proverbial cake. Just a dismal, long, dreary life of remembering.

Abberline was not a man driven too strongly by either. Love was known to him, but not sought after. Grief he had conquered and had no wish to repeat the experience. Any of them. Inspector Frederick Abberline was only driven by his willpower to live and experience all he could, do as much to save as he did to destroy.

None had seen him so much as blink an eye at a crime scene, no murder had ever been refused by him and that was what made him such a legend. Only one case ever got away, that was the Ripper case.

The year was 1888, some say the sky bled with all of the violence and bloodshed of the times. It was a year that would never be forgotten, books would be written and legends would circulate, all because of one man. He called himself Jack the Ripper and lived well up to his name.

Godley had known Abberline, the two worked on cases together in cramped offices and pubs all over the godforsaken city streets. Godley knew only a little of Abberline, they preferred it that way. That Abberline had had a wife who died in labor giving birth to his son was all that Godley cared to hear about. The rest he left to imagination and long nights when the gin was too easily passed.

Abberline understood that Godley was a man who worked to escape, it was a feeling he was well accustomed too. The thrill of catching a criminal, a murderer, or a thief was enough to sustain them... for the time being at least.

Love and grief had touched both their lives in equal shares, but what made them different was that they hadn't been defeated by them. They still worked, got along, and lived to see another day.

It didn't seem as if Abberline would get over them just as easily this time. Whitechapel was a district that didn't take to human weakness. Just the opposite in fact, all traces of weakness were stamped out of it's citizens by the end of a fortnight. All that was left was a hollow empty shell where emotion and feeling had once run rampant. It sucked all joy and life out of a body as sure as if death had come calling.

Godley watched as Abberline paced the small room to stand by the window once again. His eyes searched yet looked for nothing, he wondered if the Inspector even saw anything in the gloom. This city was no good for a man who suffered from both love and grief.

Mary Kelly might still be alive, but she was as dead to Abberline as if he had killed her himself. The only source of light in the room came from three lit lanterns that Abberline kept lit all the time whether it be day or night. He hardly ate anything and drank only gin and a few drops of absinthe. The man was slowly losing his will to live.

Withers was no help although he was the only one that could get the flare of rage into Abberline's eyes anymore. When the bottle was empty he would rage against the head of Scotland Yard swearing death would be repaid.

Do you question my decision?

The bottle would smash on the cobblestones outside, Abberline having thrown it there in such anger never seen before. Godley knew that he wouldn't hurt anyone much less himself, but he sometimes wondered what would become of Withers should the two of them be left alone.

Mary Kelly.

Abberline and she had known one another for only a few short weeks, hardly even enough time for a 'by your leave' before love caught hold of them and sunk it's arrows into their hearts. They were not easily led astray, had it not been for an insane murderer and desperation, they might never have met.

Now she was somewhere in Ireland while Abberline rotted in the cold, harsh, unforgiving desolate city of Whitechapel. Godley wondered why he wouldn't just retire and move to Ireland to find her. No one would know if he did, and he would be there to keep an eye on Withers and Scotland Yard for them.

Every time he brought the matter up, Abberline would shake his head no and say it was for the best. Each time his eyes got a little darker and he would stand by the window a little longer. What he was looking for was known only to him.

Abberline never went to the 'Ten Bells' anymore or would hear any mention of the Ripper case. A flash of red hair would turn his head, but then he would light a cigarette and curse himself for a fool.

The Nichols gang was off the streets, they were long dead from prison and men who had been wronged by them. Life was fairly simple now with only the normal beaten to death unfortunate and drunken brawl to contend with.

The good in the whole incident was that Abberline no longer searched out the laudanum and absinthe concoction to 'see' anymore. 'Chasing the dragon' had long since been given up courtesy of Jack.

Godley knocked on the door one day and heard no reply. Usually Abberline would come to the door, open it, and resume his position at the window, but today there was nothing.

He pushed the door open and found the room stripped of anything that had been there the previous day. The only thing left was Abberline's pocketwatch that he had carried around for luck. There was no note or explanation of any kind.

If truth be told, Godley had expected something like this to have happened. There was only so much punishment a man could take before breaking under the strain. Abberline hadn't been broken, he had rebelled until the very last moment.

Gasping and fighting, he had found a way out of the madness. Godley hoped that he had bought a ticket and was on his way to Ireland. If not their paths would cross again one day, perhaps in an opium den or maybe in heaven. Hell more like if their lives were any indication.

He took of his hat and sighed deeply, Abberline he hoped, had finally found some peace. Closing the door, mentally and physically, he made his way to the 'Ten Bells' where he would find something to eat before heading back to Scotland Yard.

Love and grief are two very difficult things to deal with. Abberline had dealt with both of them at the same time. How could he love someone who was still alive, but lost to him forever? Godley grinned in spite of the drudgery surrounding him, if his prediction was worth anything Abberline had found her, loved her, and if he knew what was good for him, never try to lose her again.

Authors Note 3: I tend to get very philosophical at times, the fist part of this was a mere part of my inner musings. Lol. Anyway, I had to get it into writing somehow, did you all like it? What did you think? Let me know, I'm dying to hear, or read, your thoughts on this short story inspired by Johnny Depp's brilliant performance in 'From Hell.' Review button, right there...