“It’s Jacqueline, not Jack, and I am the Ripper.”
It was 1888 and London was bustling with the rich, the poor, and the depraved. Within the depths of London, lay the East End’s Whitechapel. It was the section of the city where the lowest of the classes lived. Women frequented the streets to make the pence needed to survive.
I live with my husband, John, who is the perfect man and could have been the best father. Our lives changed the day that I miscarried, the doctor pronouncing me unable to bear the children that we so desperately desired. I fell into the pit of grief and despair at the idea we could no longer have a family together. An ideal was born from that depression and anger. It was my task in life to serve the penance to those women who brought shame upon their fertility through prostitution. These women did not deserve their wombs, their gift, and their ability to bear children without miscarriage. Jack was born to serve this purpose.