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Therese Aug 2017
The body of a girl shot down. Hidden by flowers and sheets. Wounds that finally refused to heal. The usual suspects.

Father.
Mother.
Lover.
Stranger.

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 —