Haunting

The futile fight still haunts me all the same.

I didn’t believe it at first. It didn’t hit me until she said, “Her, of all people. She was such a good girl. She didn’t deserve what happened.

 

“She must’ve fought.”

 

That’s when it hit me. She must have fought so hard for her life. I keep seeing her big brown eyes, wide with fear, her long, chocolate hair falling over one shoulder with the force of her movements. Long, slender arms outstretched in front of her, fighting off a huge, monstrous shadow, the muscles in her forearms taut against her skin. The bones in her hands and knuckles pressing through the thin layer of skin on her tan hand as she fought off her killer in the darkness of the early, chilly winter morning.

 

I don’t know details. I don’t know under what circumstances this came to be. I don’t know why her, of all people.

 

But the futile fight for her nineteen years and two months of life still haunts me all the same.

Author's Note

This was written the day I found out one of my best friends passed away.