Dropping Like Flies
<<2003-11-15 - 11:00 p.m.>>

Trust me, the man old enough to be her grandfather had told her, and she did. She swallowed her misgivings and she went to his house.

And from there we know what happens. The story comes easily to mind. We fill it in.

I remember the first story. I remember Katie, age fifteen, hit over the head and dragged off a Manhattan sidewalk. I remember the second story. I remember the third.

And I remember the most recent before this one (what number?). Finding out in words—worse, in pixels. I remember being flooded with anxious energy. I remember not being able to sit still and not being able to get through on the phone. I remember my hands balled into fists. I remember the tremendous void and the knowledge that no matter how much sympathy pain compacted in my gut, it wasn't enough, it wasn't as much, it wasn't going to alleviate anyone else's. The knowledge that it wasn't going to help, that even if I had been there the very next morning, I couldn't have smoothed that away, couldn't have scooped that burnt place out, couldn't have demonstrated some magic soothing touch.

It doesn't go away. Every day I watch for the hardness that comes with memory.

And it makes my throat hurt. It makes me furious. It makes me fear the world beyond my door, the world into which beautiful girls go every day not knowing what will happen to them, one by one.

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