How beautiful, he thinks looking down at her. He is the painter and she is his easel. Standing over the cask of what was once a college girl the man b...gins to wipe blood from his trousers. This is the last moments of her life. This young woman, who hasn’t done much, is now lying and waiting for him to disrupt a quiet perfection. A scream tears through the background. Shoulders still the man turns to walk back towards the main road. The woods are dense. Trees scratch like fingers against his tan. One man had undressed me in public and written his cell number on my breast! Worse, I had no regrets, none at all. Quite the reverse, in fact. I liked being looked at. I liked being the object of men’s fantasies. I could never go back to the old me. The clothes I chose to wear to work more and more began purposely to evidenced the body beneath. I wore thin lacy bras when I wore one at all, and thongs or more often, nothing at all under my short tight skirts and dresses. I grew to love the. More

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