The Ripper

 Faces. Oh, how beautiful faces could be. Soft. Round. Dimpled. Freckled. For many years, Jack collected faces and hung them on his wall. Trophies, they were. For animals, he took the whole head: deer, wolves, coyotes, what have you. Oh, but people? People who were so vulnerable, so weak that they relied on him for comfort and made him laugh because of their pathetic state of life?

 RrrrrriiiiiIIP.

 It was so satisfying, using his hands to strip flesh from bone. To see his prey scream and writhe. To watch the blood drip down their  necks. More satisfying was taking the faces of those who tried so hard to look tough, who seemed to have it all. Those that struggled. It only made him happier when they fought back. That thrill, that excitement! All that energy, wasted in life as their very identity was taken away! Who would recognize a man with no face, if he even lived through the blood loss?

 Jack marveled at his collection, rubbing his greasy hands together as his beady eyes flicked from one face to another. Memories of each struggle came back to him as he giggled and clapped like a schoolboy. He stopped to look at a face of a young girl named Arina, that poor girl whose mother abandoned her and father abused her like a ragdoll. Turned to him for comfort, for a friend, for escape. Read books to him and wrote poems that would move even the coldest heart, she thought. Told Jack she loved him and that she would do anything for him.

 Her screams of pain and horror were so satisfying as he took the one thing he desired.

 He recalled more and more memories until he finally stopped at the last face he took. Unlike the others, it was incomplete, only the area around the eyes stripped off. Dried, multicolored blood stained the wooden plaque it hung on. In an instant, his hands were trembling as he clenched his teeth, eyes threatening to pop out as he stared- no, glared at his mistake.

Siren.  The only prey that escaped his grasp. Her voice alone moved Jack, made him feel... love. He flattered her, sent her flowers, gave her chocolates. Every day, he would stop by the fey's lake, in spite of the laws saying that demons could not cross into fey territory. She was kind and sweet. Her voice was like honey. She enjoyed his company for a while and teased him. He thought maybe, maybe she could be the one!

 But when he confessed his undying love, she denied him. Said she didn't like him that way. His mind was in a fury. So to spite her, to try to take a so-called momento, to scare off anyone who dared try to take his prize, Jack's claws sank deep into her skin as he pulled it off. Honeyed, melodious words turned into dissonant screeching as little by little, skin peeled off. Jack could remember the colorful blood dripping, the sight of chaos behind her mask of skin. He grinned as he peeled off more and more like a fleshy facial mask, eager to take what was rightfully his!

 But no. The harpies heard their distant breathren's cries. They swooped in and pecked, scratched, screamed. His hand was not steady and instead of taking the whole face, he took only a part. That was not all, though: Siren stood up defiantly, chaotic magic swirling around  her fingers before she unleashed it upon her attacker. It hit Jack right in the face. He didn't know what it did then, but thinking about it now, it made him furious. His prey fought back and escaped. His trophy was a botched attempt. And he could not simply return, as the harpies knew what he had done and what he looked like.

 Jack turned towards a mirror and leaned in, staring at what remained. Nothing but two beady eyes in a void, an endless void of nothing. His own face, stripped away.


 If he had lips, he would grin. Only a matter of time before his treasure would be his.