The Last Victim

Caught by surprise on her way home, she fought back valiantly, managed to knock his knife away, but realized very quickly her destiny had arrived.  He had her pinned against the building by the neck.  She would die a statistic; one of three murdered in a westside alley this year.  Determined to take as much of him with her as she could, she dug her French tipped nails into his hands.  He growled and squeezed harder.  She dug deeper trying to pry his thick hands from around her neck.  She hated his eyes – they bulged as if he was the one being strangled.  Bloated skin surrounding his eyes reddened and dripped with sweat.  Her knee had met its target.  He pressed his body into hers and squeezed harder.  Memories of being loved passed through her mind and evaporated around her.  No breath passed between them.  Look how much effort it took for him to kill her she thought. He is so stupid. Flecks of light danced in his dark eyes. No.  The flecks belonged to her eyes.  They merged into a beam of light. She let go.

            Her hands dropped from his. 

He shook her.  Her face!  Her eyes!  Where was the horror, the terror?  He shook her again.  Nothing changed.  He dropped her limp body and examined the bleeding gouges on his hands.  He kicked her with all his might.  He grabbed her neck and lifted her up; looked at her face again. No pain, no fright, no anything.  He screamed.  He picked up his knife from the street and stabbed her lifeless body until he heard the footsteps approaching behind him.  He stood, kicked the bloody mess again then ran down the alley.

            Later that night, the medical examiner leaned over the girl’s mangled corpse.  “Will you look at that face?  She looks… she’s smiling!”