Dissecting the Death of a Child

He left her for dead and slowly she rotted. He put her in a box in a storeroom in a warehouse on an industrial estate. I knew all along what he was up to. I kept warning people, pointing out the obvious but the louder, the more insistent I became, the weaker my voice.

In an underhand manner, he killed her. The man had gall, a master of evasion, and prevarication. From behind a veneer of charm, he assured me he understood her and was doing his best. Truth was he wanted her not as she was; she with her grazed knees, knotted hair and wild spirit but as a little girl dressed in pink sucking on a lolly. So he compressed her, squeezed the life out of her, and dressed her up in a vile shade of saccharine.

I watched her slow motion murder from the sidelines, unable to intervene restrained by protocol.  I watched frustrated as each protestation made translated as a compromise.  There were rules, rules that only ever protected him. Bullied into submission, bent over backwards by the end of the assault I had turned the other cheek so much, my head had  rotated 360 degrees.

He sold her, whored her, and kept every penny for himself.

The thing about charlatans is you never see them coming.

I was asked to collect her remains, at a cost.

If this was a fiction  it would end with his comeuppance – it would end with some sort of justice for all who have lost their dreams and children  – alas it is reality and I must write a line beneath it, turn over a fresh page, start a new chapter.

I hear he is surfing on the coast of England. He loves the sea, it would be nice to think the sea loves him too, so much that one day she will take him to her bed.