A/N: So I was researching prostitution in the 19th century for a project in my history class, and found out that was around the exact time the noted "Jack the Ripper" made his infamous appearance, and this just popped into my brain. I only know what I have researched, and even then, I'm putting in my own artistic license – along with Bleach characters. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my shortest a/n ever.
Warnings: extreme violence, talk of gruesome deaths, yaoi, and language.
Destroying is a necessary function in life. Everything has its season.
His body trembled through the anger pulsing in hot waves through each and every one of his veins. It was simmering, on the downhill now, satisfied with the way everything had seemed to turn out. This one wasn't that special, but she wasn't ordinary, either. No. He had reason for this, for why his rage never went unchecked in the early hours just before daybreak.
He just had to get rid of it somehow, and this way was…perfect.
The smog stung his nostrils, making him momentarily forget what was beneath him, but he paused and tilted his head, surveying his handiwork. It wasn't beautiful – it was never beautiful – but it was what the filthy street trash deserved.
Her throat was slashed. Two deep, clean cuts, ripping life out of her fingers before she'd had a chance to object. Her abdomen was cut – not forcefully, but expertly – skin peeled back as he'd used that very same knife – this time carelessly – to cut the connections of two organs. One might consider them essential. The first one came with a twin, and the other… Well, the other was used in a most degrading fashion.
The hand in his pocket shifted, feeling the bit of wood against his fingers. Now to burn it, like their owners would burn in the fiery pits of hell.
A quick shuffling of feet caught his attention. Sleek as a cat as just as quick he gathered the two organs in his hands, mindless of the blood as he slipped effortlessly into the shadows of Mitre Square.
Two drunk men stumbled past, laughing about something and not even glancing in the direction of where he stood. So much for the "kindness of humanity."
The anger simmered in his gut again, but it wasn't enough to set him off. He hated humanity. They were a large bunch of sniveling, snot-nosed kiss-asses, the majority of the stupid, infuriating ones part of the stingy upper class. They were the rich ones, the ones that claimed to be religious, a part of the church, only to turn around and simply please themselves with these – with these…whores.
His upper lip curled, and he quickly got back to work, pulling a medium sized pouch from his coat and pushing the organs in his hands inside. Someplace quiet would work.
With all the confidence of a man with a purpose, he strode out of Mitre Square, not even glancing back at the horror he had inflicted, the mess that would soon be discovered and fawned over just like the rest of them.
He kept his head down, pulling his shabby jacket closer to his body. The people on the streets…they sent anger churning through his blood, but he'd had two tonight already. Granted, the first one hadn't gotten what she'd deserved and he'd been interrupted, but he supposed simple death was punishment enough.
No one seemed to notice him as he passed. It had been that way for the past two months, and he supposed longer. People in Whitechapel in 1888 didn't bother to look at the poor. They went unnoticed because everyone was poor.
Fifteen minutes later saw him on the outskirts of Whitechapel in a deserted alley, the streets reeking of urine and trash and gutter animals both living and dying. He pulled the sticks of wood out of his deep pocket, producing more from the other one as well.
He pulled the friction matches, a perfected invention that definitely made things easier, into the moonlight as he struck them together. The dry sticks took to the flame like using liquor to maintain a fire, and once he liked the way it was flickering, he knelt next to it, feeling the warmth travel through his cold skin to his bones. He shivered slightly, still sitting on his heels and resting his elbows on his knees when he slowly brought the pouch forth.
Blood had soaked through the cream canvas, staining it a deep cherry red, but he paid no mind to it. He'd burn it later. He produced the first organ – the kidney of the woman lying dead in Mitre Square, hopefully undiscovered at the moment. If she had been found… He wasn't fretting. He'd be home before someone managed to rouse the police to get there.
Once the kidney was laid on the fire and the smell of burning flesh seared through his nostrils, he produced the other organ – the uterus. It wasn't very large, a little bigger than his hand, but it made his stomach curl in anger and disgust. He threw it on the fire, too, watching, the flames dancing strangely in his eyes.
The light reflected over a face of oddly handsome features – a sharp nose, defined chin, strong jaw, high cheekbones. But it also reflected something deadly in that face, in eyes that burned cold with hatred.
He waited until all that was left was ash. Then, he slowly stood, kicking the remnants away and scattering them into a gutter, toe reaching out to catch one of the disease carrying rats in the belly. It squeaked indignantly, but he paid it no mind. They could eat the leftovers when he finished cleaning up.
And when he was, he simply walked away, slinking back into the shadows of the East End of London from whence he came.
Ichigo shuddered, eyes flashing even as he winced away from the hand touching his shoulder. But that hand was persistent, creeping further to wrap around the other one and pull him into a body that he despised. It made him want to hurl, but he had to do this. Yuzu and Karin were hungry.
He avoided the man's eyes, knowing the lust and hunger in their depths without even having to look. He supposed he was lucky – his looks were exotic, and he was paid well because of it. Well, well enough to live for two weeks with a fair amount of food, which was probably more than many of the others like him got.
The man nuzzled his neck, and Ichigo resisted the urge to pull away and simply never look back, to move anywhere other than here. But they hadn't saved up enough yet.
"So pretty," the man purred, and Ichigo stomped on the urge to punch him.
Liking men in this particular time in London was a dangerous profession, but Ichigo considered himself lucky. There were only a handful of men lined up in the prostitution business, and Ichigo squandered most of the clients. The ones that wanted a new adventure, a sexual encounter without possibly being blamed for impregnating their mistresses, were drawn to his bright, sunset orange hair and mocha eyes and fit, lithe body. He was no woman, but he found an ever-increasing number of clients.
Perhaps the all-knowing and "proper" rich people were finding that it was better to have sex with men than to have a mistress. Things went wrong when mistresses came into the picture, and Ichigo knew that no man or woman deluded themselves into thinking that these rich tycoons wanted them to stay around. Well, maybe except the mistresses.
No, they just wanted someone to fuck because they weren't getting any from their wives, and Ichigo didn't want them to touch him because no matter how good they looked they were filthy and fake and disgusting on the inside, but he had to make money. Leaving his sisters without food was not an option.
"I'm entertaining in a half hour."
What was the point of the man telling him? This was one of the first times that he had been asked – by a fucking butler, go figure – to meet his client at his grand estate, and that he would be escorted inside through the servant's quarters so as not to be detected. Normally, they would search him out on the streets, take him to an empty cottage they owned a bit out of town and proceed to slam into him with all the finesse of a gorilla.
It was degrading. It stomped on his pride, but he shoved it aside for his sisters.
"You're strangely quiet today."
He kept his mouth shut. If he said anything, he'd snarl it. The man had already fucked him twice – why couldn't he just collect his money and leave? Especially if the man was entertaining company today?
"Do you have my money?" he mumbled, barely managing to sound as if that was all he cared about.
The man chuckled. "Now, now. My wife will not be home for a fortnight. You could stay here and procure even more funds."
"I cannot," Ichigo said, a tad more forceful than he'd intended. He had to tread carefully around this client. "My sisters are at home. I need to be there," he said simply.
"Fine, then. Tomorrow night."
Ichigo nodded stiffly, trying to suppress the shiver as the man's hand traveled further down his abdomen and over the crotch of his pants. His body jerked, and he fought every instinct in his body that was screaming at him to run.
"Hmm? Not hard, my dear Ichi? Maybe I should take care of that…"
Panic surged through him. "You entertain today," he said almost desperately.
"Say my name."
He sealed his lips shut. The man's hand seized his crotch suddenly, the motion not at all pleasant and very painful, making a small yelp escape his mouth.
"Say. My. Name," he repeated.
Brown eyes slid away, burning in shame and anger, lips a working mess before he finally took a quiet, steadying breath. He could do this.
"Aizen-sir." Somehow, he had managed not to growl or spit or sound disgusted when he said the name.
"Good boy," the man murmured, tongue slipping out and stretching over his neck. Ichigo shuddered, wondering why today of all days every wrong and horrible moment in his life was making its appearance. He hated Aizen, yet he felt so helpless, the burning shame at trading his body for money making tears prick in his eyes.
He hurriedly blinked them away, swallowing and forcing himself to calm, to work a barrier around his mind so that all he did was feel blankly with his body – there would be no emotion and no time to think.
That was how the servant found them, and announced Aizen's company had arrived. Aizen shifted away, preened himself quickly, and stood, a hand on Ichigo's head.
In walked a woman and a man, the former brown-haired and mouse-like, and Ichigo could tell the man behind her was bulky even through his pristine suit, though since he was sitting the orange haired male couldn't see the other man's face. The woman walked forward slightly faster, calling, "Father!" in a happy, yet timid voice, her movement effectively thrusting the man behind her into view.
And when Ichigo did see his face, he stiffened, eyes widening in shock and mouth slightly parting.
Ichigo might have found his same sex attractive, but he had never applied the term "gorgeous" to anyone – male or female. But this man was gorgeous.
His hair was the most electric shade of blue that Ichigo had ever seen, and while his eyes regarded Aizen coldly, they were the color of frozen ice and bright aqua, a combination Ichigo wouldn't have believed unless he had seen it himself, and now that he had, it looked wonderful.
The man was big, but not overly so, and even Ichigo could see the amount of muscle hidden beneath the fancy clothes.
For the first time in his twenty-two years, Ichigo was actually attracted to a man. Well, he had been attracted to them before, but this one… He was different – Ichigo could tell. He was wearing high-class clothing, but he wasn't one of them. He regarded Aizen like the man was disgusting, not like all the others that fawned over him.
Suddenly, those blue eyes went his way, and Ichigo froze at the intensity of hatred still present in his gaze. The man's eyes were hypnotic, Ichigo realized, because he couldn't stop staring, even as the blue haired man looked over him again and again before his lips curled slightly.
Immediately, Ichigo's heart sunk, and he felt anger replace everything else until his eyes were blazing and he kept that stare on the man across the room.
Eventually, the blue haired man looked at him again, seemingly startled by the sudden change in Ichigo's eyes.
"Ah, Father, who's this?" the girl suddenly chirped, tearing Ichigo's attention away from the other man and back into the room and predicament he was currently in.
"Ahh, yes. This is my dear friend Ichigo," Aizen replied. "Ichigo, this is my daughter Momo."
The woman wore a kind smile, promptly saying hello and shaking his hand.
Aizen continued, "And this is my son-in-law Grimmjow, though I am sad to say that my other daughter Nel – his wife – passed away a few years ago."
Ichigo gave a curt nod, not willing to say anything. He turned to Aizen. "May I leave? My sisters are probably wondering where I am," he said firmly, even though he had asked permission at first. Aizen paid him well, but there were…"guidelines" that Ichigo had to follow.
The brown haired man smiled, though Ichigo knew it was far from real. "Of course, my man will see you out."
He wasn't sure why he did, but just before exiting the room, Ichigo glanced back at the blue haired man. His face was scrunched in disgust, eyes momentarily locking with Ichigo's and he sucked in a breath.
Grimmjow wasn't impervious to what Aizen was doing. He knew that his father-in-law was fucking a prostitute – and a male prostitute at that.
Ichigo gritted his teeth and merely walked away. Not a few moments later, just when he was about to exit the gate, a voice deep as hell and tempting as sin reached his ears.
"Didn't think Aizen would stoop so low as to fuck you."
The orange haired male tried to ignore him, but no dice.
"I guess you like getting fucked, huh? Or is all you care about money? Cause you see, I can't figure out which it is. If you're getting fucked by a guy for money then how disgusting are you really?"
Too much. Ichigo's back stiffened, and he whirled around, stomping over to where the blue haired man was standing far too casually for his liking. He got right in the man's face, eyes practically spitting fire.
"So what that I like men?" Ichigo snarled. "You think I want to sell my body to that twisted motherfucker in there? Oh, wait, I like it, right? Because I'm bringing it on myself because I'm so 'sinful.' Well, take your bullshit somewhere else, Mr. High and Mighty. I do this because I can't support my two sisters any other way. They have nowhere else to go and I'm not putting them through this and I'm not making them work in those damn coal mines."
The blue haired man seemed to stare right through him, blue eyes looking slightly interested. Now that he was going, Ichigo couldn't seem to stop.
"Everyone says Whitechapel is 'sin city.' Well take a look around at the economic situation! It isn't candy and rainbows. Some of us lost everything," Ichigo growled, spinning and walking away as fast as he possibly could.
He didn't see the blue eyes watching him leave.
It had been a little over a month since the last two. He'd had to lay low for a while after the double hit of Stride and Eddowes, but he didn't quite mind the wait. He'd had to plan this one anyway. But even as he had, he was practically itching all over, a newfound rage building inside of him as words bounced around in his head. He couldn't get them to leave. And most of that new rage was aimed at himself.
He was so stupid. So stupid. That boy wouldn't leave his mind. Those blazing eyes haunted him, set his blood simmering with heat, and he didn't know what to do about it. And while he hated the fact that the orange haired male had been right, he had also understood something that he'd never thought possible.
The light of a fire illuminated his face, and this time, he pulled his hood back, a shock of bright blue hair slipping loose. Grimmjow Jeagerjaques snarled. He was Aizen's son-in-law by marriage, but he wanted nothing to do with the man. What he did want, however, was revenge for the only person he'd ever remotely loved, the person that had been betrayed by the woman lying in a bloody, mutilated, broken mess.
Dorset Street wasn't very busy, and this time, there was no street or alley where she lay dead. She had been murdered inside of her own home, and her name was Mary Jane Kelly.
Her face had been mutilated almost beyond recognition – because he wanted them to know it was she that died. Her throat had been severed down to the spine. Her abdomen had been practically emptied of all the internal organs – either that or they were in a sawed heap. Her heart was missing, burning in the fire of her own home because she didn't have a heart.
This was by far the bloodiest and most gruesome. He didn't care. She was the one that had been a confidante, but had turned her back and betrayed her very best friend. He was only exacting revenge and giving her what she deserved, the stupid whore, though he supposed he could go about it a different way.
He shook his head quickly. No. A life for a life. In this case, it was five lives for one life, but that had no effect on him. They were the immediate causes for why he had lost everything he held dear.
Once the scent of ash filled the room, he doused the fire. Besides, he had to hurry. Dawn would be breaking within a few hours, and he needed to leave. When he got outside, Dorset Street was deserted, just like he had assumed it would be.
Before he knew it, his steps took him to a dilapidated set of buildings, the lights on in a few of them. He knocked on one.
It took a moment, and then, "You?" came the slightly incredulous cry when the door opened. He heard a call of, "Ichi-nii?" before he lifted his eyes to stare at the person in front of him.
He wasn't sure how it was possible, but the sunset haired man in front of him looked better than ever. Those brown eyes flashed suddenly. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"
Grimmjow shrugged. "I asked around after you left. Nice place."
"Don't mock me," Ichigo growled. Then, his eyes seemed surprised. "Why are you wearing shabby clothes?"
"You gonna invite me in?" he asked instead of answering Ichigo's question. The man frowned, glancing behind him, and Grimmjow caught a glimpse of two young girls peeking around the corner.
"I guess," Ichigo said reluctantly, turning away from the door and shooing the girls further in the house as Grimmjow followed. He paid the quick click of the closed door no mind, instead looking in on a small sitting and eating room, barely a scrap of food on the table. He guess they'd been eating, but considering how small the bowls were, their portions hadn't been very generous.
Ichigo was staring at him, hands crossed over his chest and eyes hard as dried amber. But Grimmjow continued to look around the small – very small – house, candles burning and hardly any type of furniture around, but it felt warm and inviting. It reminded him of home.
Blue eyes slid to stare at Ichigo, suddenly widening when he saw the orange haired man's face in a better light. His right eye was red and purple and green and blue, his lip split and another bruise on his arm, and when he suddenly shifted under Grimmjow's scrutiny, his shirt rustled a bit, and Grimmjow could have sworn he saw distinct bruises the shape of fingertips on Ichigo's hip.
"What the hell happened to you?" he said quietly, surprised by the anger surging inside of him. Only this time, recognized it, knew it for what it was. He'd had this very same anger before… He hadn't been able to save anyone that time, and suddenly, it was imperative that he do something before the same thing happened to this man.
The light haired girl answered, voice sad and soft. "Ichi said he's been getting beat at work lately cause he's been tired."
"Work?" Grimmjow asked, wondering if they knew.
"At the rubber company across town. They don't understand about…situations," she said carefully.
The dark haired girl, the one with a scowl that could best her brother's, snapped, "Of course they don't, Yuzu. They don't know anything. But Ichi gets money when he can… If he works hard enough."
The girl's dark eyes pinned Ichigo with a stare, and Grimmjow felt as if he'd just taken a flashback into his own life. That girl knew, she knew what Ichigo did for a living, and it wasn't working at a rubber company.
Ichigo flinched, his cheeks flushing in shame as he glanced away. He knew that she knew, too.
But Grimmjow was that girl, looking up at his mother and knowing that every night when she came home with bruises or perhaps extra money it was because she was selling herself to the highest bidder, and creeps would touch her…
Grimmjow might have hated his mother for what she did, but he loved her, too, because he realized that everything she did had been for him.
"Ah, please excuse Karin-chan, Mr…"
"Grimmjow," he supplied to the girl with light hair.
The girl named Karin scoffed. "Please. Anyone heard of Jack the Ripper? That fiasco has been going on for a while, the fact that he's after prostitutes… What do you think about it, Ichi?"
The blue haired man's ears perked. The name hadn't been circulated too much recently, but he knew it was gaining more popularity the more bodies that showed up. But he was done. Mary Jane Kelly was the last, and would forever remain that way. He didn't want to kill people, but his anger at being forced to be left alone just gripped every part of him, and he felt as if he had to kill those that had betrayed his mother.
This time, Ichigo's eyes snapped open and he glared at Karin. "I don't know, Karin. So far as I can tell he's only gone after women."
"They've all been prostitutes."
"Well, maybe they had a certain connection that the police haven't thought about."
"Stop!" came a forceful cry. Everyone turned to look at Yuzu. "Just stop it you two! Karin and I know what you are doing to provide for us, Ichi-nii – we're not blind." Her voice quieted after a moment. "I don't like it any more than Karin does, and I know that jobs are hard… I wish you didn't have to do it, Ichi.
"And Karin, stop blaming Ichi for everything. We can't do anything except possibly marry for money, and you act like Ichi-nii is a bad person. Well he isn't! He provides for us, Karin. You've seen what he has to go through to do that. He doesn't want us to work, so he's taking the brunt of the responsibility. Don't make him feel any worse than he already does," she finished firmly, tears starting to form in her eyes before she slowly walked away, ascending the small staircase into the upper part of the house.
Everyone was silent before Karin hurried upstairs, no doubt to catch her sister. Ichigo collapsed into a chair, putting his head in his hands. "I hope Jack the Ripper does come for me. I'd deserve it anyway," he mumbled.
Grimmjow growled. Ichigo deserved no such thing. Grimmjow had only killed those women because –
The blue haired man sat across from Ichigo. He'd made sure those women had no kin – especially no kids. And they hadn't. Otherwise, they'd still be alive.
"Let me explain something to you, Ichigo. Before I was those girls' age my mother was living out there, providing for the both of us because the man to which she had become a mistress left her high and dry. When I was old enough to understand, I despised her for putting me through the shame of being a prostitute's son." Ichigo's eyes were no doubt wide, but Grimmjow didn't look at him.
"When I saw that getting some form of work to obtain money was near impossible for my mother, I realized it was all she really could do. And I knew she'd gone without eating most of the time so I could eat. Then, she was murdered, right in front of me, betrayed by five women with whom she'd shared a brothel."
This time, he did look up, and Ichigo was looking at him like he understood and also like Grimmjow had grown a second head.
"Five women. Mary Ann Nichols. Annie Chapman. Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes…" as he went on, Ichigo's face began to pale. The name of Jack the Ripper might not have been that notorious right then, but everyone knew the names of the victims associated with their brutal deaths.
"And Mary Jane Kelly."
The orange haired male sucked in a breath.
"All innocent-sounding names, hmm? My mother had apparently taken a client they apparently 'loved' away from them, so they made up this ridiculous accusation to get rid of her. The five women and two constables entered our house. Mary Jane Kelly sat there and accused my mother, was the first one to grab the constable's stick and beat her with it. Eddowes joined in while the other three held me back so that I had to watch…"
Ichigo was shaking now.
"I was sent to an orphanage after that." Grimmjow was staring intently at Ichigo now, hoping the man wouldn't find him disgusting for what had happened or what he had done, been forced to do so the shame would finally go away. "The man in charge there liked to mess around with the little kids. Especially boys, and especially me. Because I didn't matter. I was a whore's son."
Brown eyes fluttered shut as Ichigo pulled in a ragged breath and slapped his hand over his mouth, and Grimmjow realized he was crying.
"I grew up there with that man until I was old enough to leave. For what they did to my mother and what happened to me because of that, they deserved to die. You will never be killed because you don't deserve it. And I could never kill you. Because I am Jack the Ripper, Ichigo."
What did you say to that? What could anyone say? The man that Ichigo had been dreaming about for past month had just revealed so much information, so much heartache that he couldn't hold back the silent tears slipping down his cheeks. He'd watched his mother get killed, too, though it was hardly a similar situation.
"Oh, God," Ichigo whispered brokenly, running his hands over his face. He couldn't look at that man. Part of him was disgusted that Grimmjow had been the one to so brutally kill those five women, but another part knew he would have done the same thing.
Ever since his mother had been killed a voice of pure anger and hatred had simmered at the back of his mind, trying to break him, make him go into a raging fit at life's unfairness. And he realized that he would have killed the police officer that had killed his mother, just like Grimmjow had killed those women.
The words echoed ominously in his head. It was obvious that Mary Jane Kelly hadn't been discovered yet, and it sent a thrill of fear and anguish and something else twisting in Ichigo's chest as he realized Grimmjow had to have murdered her just before coming to his house.
"But you married Nel," he said, the sudden thought slipping through his mouth and he said it out loud.
"Nel found me and wanted to help me. So she married me. Aizen found out and killed her."
Grimmjow's voice was solemn, and Ichigo choked back another sob. No, this man was not like the other nobles. He knew what Ichigo felt and just what the economic situation had done to everyone, especially those in Whitechapel. Hell, he'd lived it.
Finally, Ichigo managed to look up. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled, staring Grimmjow straight in the eye. He couldn't read the expression on the man's face, but the question asked was one he wasn't expecting.
"Why do you like men?"
Ichigo was startled, but also glad to get onto another topic. He found it strange that he didn't find the killer as disgusting as he thought he would, and that he knew why he'd done it, and that deep down, he would have, too.
"I never liked women. They'd climb all over me, and all I felt was sick." It was the only explanation he had, but it was true.
It was said so quietly that for a second Ichigo thought he hadn't heard it, but when he looked at Grimmjow, he knew the man had said it. He swallowed, almost afraid to ask. "Was it…because of…that man?"
Grimmjow shrugged. "Maybe. But all I know is that I can't get you out of my head."
Seriously, Ichigo had to have been lacking air, because he felt himself suck in another breath. He didn't want to indulge just how much he had found this man attractive, but he wouldn't leave his dreams, wouldn't leave him alone, and even though he'd despised Ichigo at first, the orange haired male still had pined after him.
And it had gotten him in trouble. Aizen had somehow noticed that he wasn't thinking about him but someone else (not that Ichigo ever thought about that wretched man when he had to service him), hence the black eye and bruises. He'd been paid, but not well, and not for the three times that bastard had viciously slammed into him.
Suddenly, Grimmjow was moving, Ichigo scooting back in his chair as the blue haired man stood in front of him. He was intimidating, but Ichigo didn't quite think so – not when that look was on Grimmjow's face.
"I know Aizen did that to you."
Ichigo nodded, eyes drifting away as his face brightened with shame. But Grimmjow didn't seem to care. He grabbed Ichigo's chin, making him face the impossibly good-looking man, and his heart stuttered in his chest and then started pounding in his ears.
"No more," he promised quietly, leaning down quickly as his lips met Ichigo's.
He was surprised, but he was also surprised that it felt so good. He'd hated kissing, hated the tongues that men forced down his throat and the fact that he had to be privy to their sexual wants, and that he was oftentimes labeled as their bitch. But it didn't feel that way. Not with Grimmjow.
Those lips weren't forceful. They were surprisingly soft (considering Grimmjow had just murdered a woman, and killing and gentle didn't quite go together), and Ichigo clutched at the old jacket Grimmjow wore. Fire was spreading throughout every surface of his body, and heat pooled and coiled in his groin, a sensation that hadn't felt this real since he could remember.
Grimmjow's hands cupped his face, and Ichigo had never felt so breakable in his entire life. He didn't mind it. Everyone else had treated him like they could slap him and beat him around, but this was different, and it felt wonderful.
And perhaps – just maybe – things were looking up.
A/N: Umm… I was feeling a bit depressed and unhappy? *sheepish grin* Well, as disturbing as this piece probably is, I thought it was pretty good. This in no way means that I approve of the Whitechapel murders, but there are always two sides to every story, something that I sort of wanted to show here. Plus, it was just an idea to help my motivation with my project. Let me know what you think!
- wolf's paradise
PS. This is also for all of those writers that have written about Grimmjow's love of destruction and somehow making the story seem interesting and great, and that goes out to Racey withThriller, KamiKaze 43v3r withKiller Instinct, The Petulant Prodigy with I'm Psycho, Baby, and others I can't quite remember at the moment.