It was on the News – a girl murdered in an alley way, three blocks from my apartment. A girl fitting Jeanie’s description, the lesbian from upstairs.
The report was terrible – A body discarded amongst the detritus of fast food outlets, twisted underwear, blood, excrement. I stopped reading for fear of losing my lunch to the tea room’s black and white linoleum floor.
Her body was found by a man sleeping rough, looking for food. There is a photo of him in the paper, blinking at the flash of the camera in his dirty Town Jacket and white boating shoes, blinking as if the sudden white flash would briefly project the image of the misshapen skull onto the back of his eyelids.
They said the victim’s killer was known to her – it was probably the tragic and abrupt end result of a lover’s spat.
I shudder to think of my part in the event, my involvement that would eventually lead this girl to that alley way – the notes, the loud music, the phone call to the landlady downstairs and the final eviction.
I keep telling myself – all is fair in love and war, but I am having a hard time believing it.
And then last night – screaming in the street below – Come out you asshole. Come and fight me like a man.
Strange thing is, it was a woman’s voice.