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Three days passed before the body was found, sprawled in the sludge that had overflowed from the blocked drain at the bottom of the alleyway. Rare passers-by glanced upon it pitifully before continuing their day. Aside from this, it went unnoticed.

One day after the killing, it lay, cold and wet. Two days afterwards and the rain had washed the blood away, but the stink of slowly rotting flesh began to shift in the air. Three days passed and the smells from the drain and the body had together concocted a potion of scents that forced people to clutch their noses and hold their breath as they scurried past, not one bothering to look at whatever could be the cause of such an aroma.

Racing down the alley, the girl had no idea at what lolled ahead of her. Only once she had caught her breath and convinced herself she was safe from him did she even notice the stink, throwing her hand up to her nose as if it could kill her.

Knowing she couldn’t venture back out into the streets yet; knowing she was stuck here for at least an hour; knowing that there was no way she was going to be able to stay here for long without finding out the cause of the smell, she took a step down the alley.

Any fear that she had held had dissipated due to adrenalin when she was running, and now she’d caught her breath back she could feel it reappearing, flowing steadily through her veins. Mentally kicking herself, she forced another step.

I never used to be like this. What’s changed?

Step.

[i]I used to be fearless. I used to run, to play, to laugh. Where did that go?

Step.

I used not to have to worry. I used not to have to be scared. Can’t I have that back?

Step.

I used not to be bruised. I used not to have to lie. When was that?

Step.

Why did this happen to me?

Step.

Him.

Stop.

Stronger than ever now, the shocking scent wafted up her nose. Fighting back the urge to retch, she squinted further into the darkness. Dead-end – she was just over a metre away from a dark brick wall stretching across the alley. Glancing around quickly, she couldn’t make sense of the mystery smell – until she looked down.

Legs stuck out at odd angles. Eyes wide open. Cold. Wet. Stiff. Tiny.

Crouching down silently, still clutching her nostrils tight shut and taking tiny breaths, the girl gently reached out to touch the body. She could hold the head in her hands; the body itself was not longer than twenty centimetres. What are you doing here? Who were you?

Running her hand across the body, she felt compassion rush out of her. She wanted to save the thing, she wanted to go back in time to whenever it had been killed and help it; stop whatever it was that had caused this: but she couldn’t. Gently, she turned it over and allowed a few minutes for the pouring rain – rain she hadn’t noticed until now – to wash the muck off. Only then did she realise her hand was red-stained, and blood was oozing out of its side where it had clearly been mauled: a large chunk was missing, like the last puzzle piece you can never find.

Salt. It dripped into her mouth, sharp on her tongue. Tears? She hadn’t cried in years, a weakness she had never been able to show – or a strength she’d never had?

On her knees in the sludge, clutching the body, the girl cried. She let out every emotion she’d felt in the last four years. Four years of terror; of pain; of force; of torture; of what he called love. Four years. No more.

Peeling her sodden t-shirt over her head, she wrapped the body in it and clutched it to her chest, breathing steadier now. Although she couldn’t see the alley entrance as she kneeled facing the wall, she sensed it. Sensed him. He was there.

Filling her lungs with air as if for the last time, she slowly stood, rain tumbling down her face, her nose, her back, her stomach. Tears and rain were indistinguishable from each other now. Turning to face him, she allowed emotion to fill her eyes and bore them deep into his. She was desperate for him to understand, to show him: she had loved him, but he had wronged her. She wanted him to feel it, to know it, and then to take her in his arms and tell her he was sorry and he would never do it again, and to stick to that promise so they could live happily ever after.

In some fantasy world, maybe that could happen. But she knew it wouldn’t, so she said with her eyes what her mouth refused to. Goodbye.

Anger filled her. White-hot, ice-cold fury, pure, undiluted rage. She stormed the metres between them in three steps, her pale face going whiter every stride. Desperate to shout at him, to scream, to kick him, to hit him, she refrained from all of this. “This,” she said quietly, “is me. This is what I will become: this is what you have forced me to be on the road to. This is me.”

Thrusting the dead kitten into his arms, she simply walked away from the past.