Ripping Through Time

London, England 1888

                                                                                ~1888~

            Bam, bam, bam!

            “Abberline, open up!” A loud voice booms from across the room.

            The voice bangs on the door again followed by, “Abberline, are you in there?”

            I grunt then squeeze my eyes tightly as I reposition myself on my desk. The pounding grows louder then suddenly stops. I sigh and relax once again when suddenly my door bursts open with a bang.

            “Mr. Abberline, get up this instant,”

            Glass in hand; I slowly rolled my head up and wince when the afternoon light shines straight into my blue-grey eyes. With my left hand I groggily massage my forehead to ease the headache that is beginning to form from this morning’s glass of whiskey.

            My boss, a short pudgy man in a muddy brown plaid suit, long sideburns, with a velvet derby hat sitting on his head, holds a large file in his hand and a pipe in his mouth. He takes one look at me and curls his lip and wrinkles his nose.

            “I have a job for you,” He says around his pipe.

            “Thanks for the offer, mate, but I already have a job,” I smirk to myself.

            “That’s enough with your snide comments Mr. Abberline,” Boss says grabbing the pipe out of his mouth angrily. “But in all seriousness, I have your next case,”            

        He takes the file out from under his arm and tosses it onto my desk. “Whitechapel Murders” it reads in large bold letters. I look back to my boss in indifference. He’s turned toward the door.

            “I think you’ll rather like this one,”

            I take another glance at it then look back to him. “Everybody’s been dropping this case, it’s been passed around to everyone in the whole damn building! Isn’t this the investigation of the murderer whose been killing all of those harlots? The one no one has been able- -“

            “- - to catch? Yes sir, that’s the one,” He paused and chuckled to himself. As he starts to turn the knob on the door he says, “They are calling him the Ripper.” As he opens the door he casts me a glance over his shoulder, “Oh, and Abberline?”

            I cock my head and jut my chin out mockingly.

            “Hmm?”

            “If you don’t solve this one, you’re fired,”

            He exits the room with heaps of laughter, slamming the door closed, leaving me alone in my office.

            I sit up then abruptly slump into my cushion chair then lower my chin to my chest, letting out a long, low sigh. I slowly cross my arms then close my eyes. A sudden burst of sharp pain causes me to pinch the bridge of my nose. I open my eyes and take a long look at my office space.

            The door leading into my office reads in large lettering “Frederick Abberline, Detective in Both Public and Private Affairs”. The walls are covered in morbid maroon patterned wallpaper with the same cheap color carpet lining the floor. The few windows I have in my office are clothed with tattered curtains. A wooden coat rack stands in the front left corner, with my coat hanging on one of its hooks. The rusty steam radiator clanks and squeaks giving an annoying yet comforting background noise. An unread newspaper lays crinkled on the floor. My desk is cluttered with empty bottles, two packs of opened cigarettes, and a chipped china dish serving as an ashtray. A stack of unsolved cases are piled on the corner farthest away from where I’m sitting, and the glass container holding whiskey and the glass I was currently drinking from sits closest to me.