“What is your name?” She asks as if she does not know. Everyone knows my name. You might not know my face but you know my name. My name is famous, yet my face is not. I will be immortalized by time. The papers know my name; the people know my name. No one knows my face. My face stays hidden in night, dressed in black, covering my face with a hood. My face does not need to be seen. My face is not famous. My name and my name alone is well-known. She walks away. I guess she was bored with me not answering her. It is cold here tonight in London. She starts down the damp streets filled with puddles. The stone is old, grimy and worn.

The white breath leaves our mouths in the cold, brisk winter. The leather gloves creak with movement. She’s getting away. Not tonight. Not many people are walking the streets tonight. The city is scared. The late night is dark and black, with fog so thick that one can cut it with a knife. The perfect night. One can feel the fear walking through the scared streets. She glances back and walks faster. I was spotted. Her dress is torn in some places. A ratty little thing. She must be cold. The lanterns burn with some light but not much. I know where the light post is but not much else.

No one dares to come outside. Fear motivates humans to do some pretty crazy things. Then again, why would anyone be out this late at night?

“Miss?” She turns to face me.

“What? What do you want? What’s your name?” She continues to back away out of fear.

“You dropped this.” The leather gloves creak as they hold out her handkerchief.

“Oh, thank you.” The worry leaves her face as she accepts the token. Having a little laugh to herself, she starts walking once more. No worry in sight, making her way through London. No one is safe.

“Miss?” She turns and starts to run as fast as her legs can carry her. She runs with grace as a majestic beast, leaping over things in her way and dodging the lampposts. Panting heavily at a brick wall, a dead end.

“What do you want?” Hidden in the shadows, why would I answer her question? The blade is sharp and ready. The leather creaks as my grip tightens. “What do you want? What is your name?” She'd asked me that earlier. What is my name? What is a name? Names do not really matter. “A rose called by any other name would smell just as sweet.” Names are fake forms of identification. Her eyes say fear. Falling to the ground she cries, her tears bathing the streets. After the river of tears she looks up and believes she is alone. My hood comes off. Now she can see my face.

“Honey, what are you doing out here in the cold?” She grabs my leg, hugging it.

“There… was a… there was a man,” she said, looking at the fog frantically.

“Well I do not see anyone.”

“Thank you, you must have scared him off.” I offer my hand to help her to her feet. With one hand she comes up from the ground and with the other… she returns. The blade finds its place into her chest. What’s my name? I think.

My name is Ripper.