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It seems so beautifully tragic, the silent death of a common prostitute.  Who stops to care for them, who stops to wonder how such a horrible thing could happen to someone so beautiful?  Even in death, the woman seems flawless.  Even blood-spattered, her eyes dance with a fire.
I am one of the nameless, faceless, morbid-fascinated people who gather around the body like wolves to fresh meat.  I see no one crying, no one mourning, no one stopping to give the deceased a polite farewell.  She is but a prostitute, no one worthy of a second glance.  No one cared for her when she was living, why should they bother now that she was gone?
It’s a sin to kill; every man, woman, and child knows it.  And as I gaze into her naturally beautiful face, I wonder what kind of man would go against God’s rules to harm her.  What kind of man would strike down at her head, killing her before she can scream?  What kind of man would look into her gorgeous face and feel malice, feel wrath, feel rage?
It seems beyond an ordinary sin to kill one so beautiful.
It seems more than merely immoral.
It seems . . . unthinkable.
A woman to my right turns and leaves.  I assume she is bored.  The excitement of fresh blood has gone; there’s no reason for her to stay.  Does she not have a heart?  Can she not bless the dead’s soul with the sign of the crucifix?  Can she not whisper her luck in the afterlife?  Can she not spare a thought for the poor young girl whose life was stripped away before she even met it?
They put her body in a black bag, and I stare into her enchanting eyes as they zip her up and lift her onto a stretcher.  More people leave, there’s nothing more to see, only the police and the bloodstain she left behind.
Prostitutes are such strange creatures, modern-day sirens.  So beautiful, but so tortured, like a bird on a chain.  I feel pity for the dead and I wonder what they would think.  Would they appreciate my sympathy, or despise me for thinking they deserve it?
I realize I am the only one still there; the crowd is gone, as is the coroner.  Police tape marks the scene, but no one’s around to guard it.  Photos have been taken, the scene dusted for fingerprints, little pieces of evidence unwittingly left behind by the killer were collected and bagged.  All the remains is the bloodstain, and that too shall fade.
It seems so beautifully tragic, the silent death of a common prostitute.  Who stops to care for them, who stops to wonder how such a horrible thing could happen to someone so beautiful?  Who, out of the nameless, faceless, morbid-fascinated crowd, will think of her . . . and have tears come to their eyes?