Bartholomew  hated who he was as a boy. He grew up in London’s east end with his single father (his mother had died of tuberculosis), where he was surrounded by poverty, prostitutes, drunkards, beggars, syphilis, and the most influential of all, crime.

He was made aware of his Vampiric nature by his father at the young age of three and was forced to hide in the shadows and conceal who he truly was. What he truly was.

And although he had come to terms with the supposition that he was nothing but a creature, he still yearned for normalcy.

He stared out the window of his room sullenly watching the other children play in the sunlight, for being outdoors during light hours was strictly forbidden by his father while he was stuck indoors to read books and study boring literature and maths.

When Bartholomew was about 13, he began to wonder where his father’s income had come from. And where he got the meat in which they ate every night and the blood they drank from dirty dishes.

He was highly suspicious of his father, who had constantly left the house, claiming he had to ‘take care of business’.

And eventually, Bartholomew gathered his courage and snuck out behind his father one late night, a decision that created a burden he carried on his shoulders till this day.

He had followed his father in the darkness and slithered over corners, feeling guilty although there was a tinge of exhilaration.

Until he was grabbed by the collar of his shirt by a rough hand.

Hitting the hard brick ground, with a loud yelp of surprise and pain, he sensed his father turn around.

He looked up to see his attacker and he got a glimpse of the man, unshaved beard, which was a buffet for whatever critters lived inside it, dirty and torn clothes, and tweed pants, which were also ragged through before the man was sent flying into a near brick wall of a building.

Bartholomew’s heart was beating fast, not just because of the sudden assault by his attacker, but from thoughts of what his father would do to him as a consequence of his misbehavior as well.

But those fears slipped away as his father kneeled down slightly with a look of worry on his face and asked him if he was okay.

Bartholomew nodded before sensing movement to his right.

His voice was choked off as he tried to warn his father, his throat closed tight.

And then he watched in slow motion (which seemed like super sonic speed later on when he recalled the following events) as the grungy sir plunged a glimmering blade into his father’s chest.

Yanked it out.

Inserted it again.

And again.

And again.

And again and again and again and again.

And with one final slash to the throat, his father dropped dead.

The man took one glance at the stunned frightened boy who was to become The Ripper and sprinted off.

In an act that made Bartholomew furiously guilty later on, he ran back to his house as fast as he could, not slowing down for anything until he slammed his door shut and locked it.

And then the tears came.

Yes, so, Jack hated his childhood because it reminded him of how weak he was. Made him feel like a burden. 

A childhood that burned hate into his brain and heart like a branding iron burning a sign into skin.

He was not going to be a liability ever again. He was never going to be vulnerable like he was as a child.