Getting killed in London by Jack the Ripper in the late 1800’s sounds rather glamorous. His lucky victims get to live immortally as an unsolved mystery. Every day, tourists gather to walk in the footsteps of the poor girls and hear the gruesome details of their deaths. The experience of taking the walking tour was so juicy that it had me wondering what it would be like to have been alive in the time of Jack the Ripper.
I imagine, with my disposition and build, that if I were alive in 1888 I would be an orphaned chimney sweep battling a case of tuberculosis. The monotony of my daily life would be so bleak and tragic that my ears would perk up when hearing about the murders that were taking place around town. I imagine walking the streets with my chimney sweep brush in hand, passing a newsboy yelling his lungs out in order to draw attention to the morning’s biggest scoop. Being too poor to afford a paper, I linger close to a rich man and try to read over his shoulder. After only 10 minutes, this very busy man disposes of the paper and I scurry to pick it up. The orphanage I’ve grown up in hasn’t provided me with the best education, but I can follow the story by pulling out key words and looking at the pictures. Like the rest of London, I quickly become engrossed by the murders and go to pubs at night to listen and share theories about who was behind it all.
Most nights, I lie on my flea-infested mat on the damp floor and have trouble falling asleep due to fitful bursts of coughing, but soon I find myself awake thinking about Jack the Ripper. I’m not afraid; in fact, I’m fascinated by it all. I loved hearing about the murders and I hope that there will be more soon. I become oddly reflective on my own life and how little meaning it has. The doctors aren’t hopeful about my chances of recovering from TB. I don’t have long to live, a few months if I’m lucky. When I go, there will be no one to remember me. I won’t even have a proper burial or tombstone. But if Jack the Ripper kills me, I will become a celebrity. My life will have meaning. The only problem is figuring out how to get killed. Jack the Ripper’s victim profile consists entirely of female prostitutes, but maybe Jack is up to the challenge of a male victim. Everyone needs a break from their routine to try something new, even serial killers.
For the next few weeks, I spend my time lingering in dark alleyways. My method of choice is to sing loudly in order to attract Jack’s attention. I’m not the best singer, so if Jack is around, my intolerable voice might have been enough to irk him into killing me. As he emerges from the shadows I feign terror and surprise. I put up a good fight. I struggle as the knife plunges directly to my stomach, but secretly I am relishing in my new celebrity status. To think, the next day my name will be in every newspaper. People will know my name. They will remember me.
Death would’ve been the best thing to ever happen to me. For years to come, I would be immortalized through my death. My name would appear in numerous books, flamboyant tour guides would act out my struggle with Jack the Ripper, and maybe I could even be like the girl from “The Lovely Bones,” and feed the police clues from the grave about the killer.
But unfortunately, I live in the 21st century, where being killed is considered undesirable. I might die of old age, or maybe tomorrow a piano will fall on me as I’m walking down the street. While these are fine ways to die, they don’t allow for the possibility of having my likeness plastered on a mug in a Jack the Ripper gift shop. I guess I just need to get used to the fact that no matter how I die, it won’t be as juicy as getting ripped by the world’s first serial killer.
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