The murder was unheard of. And unheard.

A cherub face with eyes containing only five years of recordings, still open, running on empty. A wondrously formed mouth; a grotesque howl of suffering. Hair clung to her head like soaked frayed ends of old rope.
But no, it all came back to her unforgottable face.

(Oh God, the face)

On the bloody blanket, kissing the wall over and over, impressed onto the subtle crumple of the bedsheets; her sweet face was all over the room. Contorted.

The murderer would smash her face into the massively shocked hearts of strangers, pressing just as hard as he did into the furniture. The same furniture swallowed her screams whole and did not give them back. If you stood there long enough, you’d realise it was the same everywhere else; the whole room stank of secrets never to be returned.