It was euphoric, pleasurable, orgasmic: The combination of squeals and cries sent a surge of adrenaline through me and I thrust harder until eventually she stopped all together, I sighed at that point and let her down as gently as I could. Leaving her on the kerbside like a broken toy and putting myself away, sighing at such a thrilling time cut short by high-pitched sirens once again.
They 'aven't caught me in over three-hundred years: The Met'd never been a competent police force and I doubted they'd start now. Of course with the dawn of this "Modern age" they'd find obscure "evidence" somewhere to put some poor fellow in prison: A patch of fabric with dead skin cells and blood on it that'd been ripped off onto a nearby nail one unfortunate day that the poor bastard had been late for work and had to rush through the same back-alley I'd just used, snagging his trousers on a rusted spike. He'd be pleading not guilty of course, as they always did, but who believes the innocent?
The modern media sure didn't and the following morning I managed to push out a small snicker as the newsreader and police force had already set their crosshairs on an unfortunate student who'd employed my work's "Services" literally moments before I'd made use of her, to think he'd been inside her so soon before me made me happy he'd been blamed, though luckily I missed her sexual organs and any mess he'd left behind wouldn't have stained it: I'd have hated for it to get such horrid fluids upon it.
Upon further viewing it seemed as if the case was pretty open and shut: Sperm found in her body and outside it, his pen knife found at the scene covered in blood (that I'd spilled). Even with this forensic science I'd never truly been discovered, hair's never fallen out, skins never flaked off, in fact I've not changed since my first documented killings in Eighteen-Eighty-Eight, I was a younger, more boastful man back then, I even laugh whenever I overhear a young fan talking of my letters or "crimes" as some of the more naive, narrow minded followers would say. It was fun to mock the incompetence of the Met back then, scrambling all over just to find me, even when I told them of my "Final" killing they did nothing, and for a long time other people have recieved the fame for my work.
"Ah well." I sigh as I cut a slice of bacon and egg and place it in my mouth, "Maybe Jack should make an official reappearance..." I wonder as I spin the thought over in my mind.