He sat hunched over the newspaper.

Easy.....easy....his eyes weren't as great as they used to be....mustn't chop off any of the hair.

Because this is how he wanted to remember her.

Slowly, he glued the slightly faded photograph that he'd just tailored onto the newspaper article.

Much better.

Because this was going to be how he'd remember her.

He looked at the article, again, and this time, the photograph jogged a memory.

It was a photo of a tiny girl, with thick brown curls. She was wearing one of those ridiculous pairs of enormous sunglasses: plastic frames twice the size of her face, in a cornea-searing pink, more dangerous to eyes than the UV rays they were meant to protect from. Her smile, remarkably gap-free for a four year old, was a killer: you looked at this child and KNEW that smile would get her places.

He winced at the thought. Hah, places indeed.

He'd seen her only once since she ran away. He knew she still came by the house: she hadn't left her key, and once or twice, he'd come up to her bedroom in the morning to find the covers mussed and the shower steaming.

He'd woken up early one morning, and caught her coming down the stairs. She still had the penetrating eyes, no longer hidden by frames of pink plastic, but by layers of kohl. The smile was still there, and could still make a man melt, but the bright red surrounding it reminded him faintly of a clown. Like Mr Bubbles, who'd been guest of honour at her fourth birthday party.

And, oh, her hair. Her beautiful, fluffy brown hair. It had always been daddy's favourite feature, and she, daddy's favourite child. Now, it glowed radioactive, more peroxide than keratin.

She'd stared for another moment, and then rushed past him out the door. He hadn't said anything.

One look at her clothes told him what his beautiful shining star had become. He'd wanted her to be a doctor, and she'd wanted to be a singer.

One look at her clothes, that was all, and he knew she'd become neither.

But that was OK, really, it was. Whatever she wanted to do with her life, didn't matter to him. This blonde stranger, this random prostitute murdered in Suffolks' streets, meant nothing to him.

He stared at the picture again. This was how he was going to remember her.

This was who he was going to grieve for.

His clinical mental separation done, he put his head into his arms and sobbed.



Authors Note: Some of you may have heard of the Jack the Ripper copycat who's been terrorizing the streets of Ipswich, Suffolk, brutally murdering prostitutes. One of his victims was only 19 years old. Aside from her name, Tania, this story is born entirely of my imagination.

Peace, prayers and healing to the families of these women.

Queen Sana at 3:11 PM