She was small, slight and beautiful. She was also selfish, lost and betrayed; she was greatly loved and she had been hugely abused.
I remember her best sitting in an armchair, hugging her knees. Even when she was still – she was never still. She talked. She smoked. She drank. She remembered. And she tried hard to forget.
She had many friends, yet at the end, no friends. None she’d let near, none she let help her. She’d had many families too. They too kept away – and were kept at bay.
She had a fierce temper. Despite her tiny stature she would get angry, fly at people, fight. She was always so sorry afterwards. Always forgave her enemies and expected forgiveness from others. She did not begrudge.
She took what wasn’t hers without any shame. If she was hungry she ate. If she was thirsty she drank.
She listened to Moby over and over again. She made me hate Moby.
She’d wander the house all night and sleep all day. She’d go for days without washing then stand in the shower for hours.
She’d go out. And she wouldn’t come back for days. It was a relief – and it was a worry too.
She would never recover from being gang-raped. For months she’d kept the memory buried deep. But when it suppurated to the surface she couldn’t bear it. There were so many of them. It had been such a betrayal.
Afterwards she slipped slowly and inexorably into depression, alcoholism and madness. She’d wander the streets muttering or singing to herself. She couldn’t be reached. She was in a ‘world of her own.’ This was the girl he murdered, wrapped in old curtains and dumped in an alleyway.
But she was murdered long before that. And I know the name of that other murdering bastard.