The body of a girl shot down. Hidden by flowers and sheets. Wounds that finally refused to heal. The usual suspects.
From one dead girl walking to another. I can see you. I can smell you beneath the perfumes and florals. The usual questions.
Was it a noose; a candlestick; a human hand?
Was it in the bedroom; the ballroom; the alleyway?
Was it for lust; greed; power?
Was it your fault?
— The End —