Dead. Her brown gentle curls sprawling around on the concrete, slowly being touched with blood. Soft brown eyes, so wide of shock and fear of the events that had just occurred. Her body lays there mangled, and her limbs in every which direction in a uncomfortable position, not that she would feel it anyway. Her once yellow summer dress filled with white flowers is now stained an ugly rust red.
     Gone. What once was filled with the very essence of pure life, now gone and is left with an empty shell. No longer will she walk down those bright city streets. No longer will she lay against the old tree, sketching out the ducks swimming in the pond. No more laughter to fill the deadly silence of a boring afternoon. No more pointless conversations just to talk about everything and anything. That’s all gone.
     Forever. She’s never coming back, not like when she would leave for work or go out for lunch with her many friends. She’s not going to come through the door and say “I’m home!” Or those soft “I’m back.” She’s never going to be here, not with me, and not with anyone. She is no more, like a flower, the most beautiful ones are picked and become dead. Forever she is gone and dead.