She was stiff and cold. Not a vibe. Pale and still.
Her name?
She was freshly baked at Barnard's, an international education major. Her past year was a new start, a new chapter with which she sought to express her wills and wants. She cleansed her brush from golden wisps and threw it in her last of the stacked boxes on the front porch. Jake was waiting in the car, happily honking for his girl to jump in next to him in the passenger's seat. They planned tomorrow together: New York, new house and a new job.
Her name?
Now, she's number 39-B lying on a stretcher, washed with hot water, waiting to be wheeled down the mortuary. How ironic; after her touch was once solemnly desired by most guys at Beta Fraternity, her corp is now being examined from behind plastic dull gloves. It has bacteria.
All stool was removed. Blood was drained into the shiny sink down the washer. The fat slough between her breasts is neatly stitched. Her pupils were covered with a transparent lid and closed shut, peacefully. A grab of white puffy cotton was stuffed in her mouth. Lately sealed with a doubled stitch. It's not that hard: you just press a 2-inch needle, a random one from the silver tray, up the soft spot of the lower jaw into the mouth and back from the upper gum. The thread will slide along and tie the mouth. Her hair was brushed and pampered. Her favorite black dress with green stripes on the upper left shoulder going down her right waist was gently put on. She has bought it for her 18th birthday party from Dior's. It was a bit tricky for her body was a bit more rigid now.
Friends and family wanted an opened casket. Her face was a fetish to the neighbors' eyes. Her big green eyes were dimmed, her wide white smile was hid, her soft voice was billed and her perky touch was still. But the marks of the rope on her neck were loud, the bruises on her shoulders, hands and collar bones were pumping pain, her broken nose was bulging out and screams of 12 stabs were breaking bad. You could almost see it, feel the stainless steel knife into her guts.
Her black slippers were on. She wasn't a "heels" person. Not that any one was going to see them; the lower half of the full wooden coffin was closed now. The upper part, too. For the good of the dead, respect the ending. The coffin was fully shut and nailed as the last load of breeze whiffed from out of it.
"By time, her death will become a secret, even to me", murmured a low hoarse voice from within the dark crowd.
Her name? Does it really matter? Well, does it?
Her name?
She was freshly baked at Barnard's, an international education major. Her past year was a new start, a new chapter with which she sought to express her wills and wants. She cleansed her brush from golden wisps and threw it in her last of the stacked boxes on the front porch. Jake was waiting in the car, happily honking for his girl to jump in next to him in the passenger's seat. They planned tomorrow together: New York, new house and a new job.
Her name?
Now, she's number 39-B lying on a stretcher, washed with hot water, waiting to be wheeled down the mortuary. How ironic; after her touch was once solemnly desired by most guys at Beta Fraternity, her corp is now being examined from behind plastic dull gloves. It has bacteria.
All stool was removed. Blood was drained into the shiny sink down the washer. The fat slough between her breasts is neatly stitched. Her pupils were covered with a transparent lid and closed shut, peacefully. A grab of white puffy cotton was stuffed in her mouth. Lately sealed with a doubled stitch. It's not that hard: you just press a 2-inch needle, a random one from the silver tray, up the soft spot of the lower jaw into the mouth and back from the upper gum. The thread will slide along and tie the mouth. Her hair was brushed and pampered. Her favorite black dress with green stripes on the upper left shoulder going down her right waist was gently put on. She has bought it for her 18th birthday party from Dior's. It was a bit tricky for her body was a bit more rigid now.
Friends and family wanted an opened casket. Her face was a fetish to the neighbors' eyes. Her big green eyes were dimmed, her wide white smile was hid, her soft voice was billed and her perky touch was still. But the marks of the rope on her neck were loud, the bruises on her shoulders, hands and collar bones were pumping pain, her broken nose was bulging out and screams of 12 stabs were breaking bad. You could almost see it, feel the stainless steel knife into her guts.
Her black slippers were on. She wasn't a "heels" person. Not that any one was going to see them; the lower half of the full wooden coffin was closed now. The upper part, too. For the good of the dead, respect the ending. The coffin was fully shut and nailed as the last load of breeze whiffed from out of it.
"By time, her death will become a secret, even to me", murmured a low hoarse voice from within the dark crowd.
Her name? Does it really matter? Well, does it?
