it was a boy and a girl in an alley with cigarette smoke
late at night on a friday
and they heard her scream.
it was her mother, her cries of mourning, her screams
for her youngest daughter that echoed
into the rainy morning and pierced through the
people clad all in black and made the priest momentarily
lose his words, caught in his throat, as he heard
the mother in the front row with her husband and children, yelling out
to God for her daughter.
it was his left hand that griped her throat and held her
against the cement wall, covered in graffiti, as she
pleaded and cried
as he pushed closer against her and reached down.
it was the barman in the back corner of the reception who felt
like he shouldn't be there, but had been asked by the parents
of the girl whose body he had found
in the dirty back alley behind his bar, late at night
when he heard her scream.
it was the force of him going into her that made her go limp, hoping
and praying that it would all end soon, that the pain
would just stop as he looked at her with an evil grin,
cigarette held between his lips.
it was her older sister that stopped eating, stopped
talking, stopped attending college, gave up on life
when she heard the news via a late night phone call and came home
to find the boy, who became obsessed with the idea of revenge
because the police weren't doing enough to find him in her mind.
it was the scream that echoed through the night
when he pulled out the knife, glinting silver in the moonlight
and she became afraid as he held it against her throat
that they heard and sent them running to the abandoned alley, empty
except for the body of a young girl,
it was the ones who heard her scream and found her
that never forgot.