Being the Murdered
First Girl
—
Cathy Ulrich
THE THING ABOUT BEING THE MURDERED FIRST GIRL is you set the plot in motion.
You will be the first, you will set the plot in motion. With your perfect teeth and shiny hair, your handsome boyfriend (you were sleeping with him, of course, you couldn’t be the first girl if you weren’t, the kind of girl certain men say spreads her legs easy; say easy; say hey, baby, wanna come back to my place?), with your confident smile, your skirts that shimmied around your thighs when you walked. They’ll all remember a glimpse of your thigh, they’ll all remember you rolled your school uniform skirt at the top.
The killer will start with you. The killer has to start with someone. It’s always a girl. A girl who is, like you, pretty, but in a mean way, with dark eyeliner or thick mascara, or something thin and sharp behind her lips, something that looks like she may bite.
The other girls will talk about you behind your back, they’ll say bitch, they’ll say slut, they’ll say all the things they’ve heard men say. When you’re dead, they’ll cry hard, shimmering tears, she was so beautiful, she didn’t deserve this, but there will be a part of them that thinks — maybe you did.
They’ll wonder, to themselves, if your boyfriend will need comfort, will need care. They’ll wonder when he will be ready to move on.
They’ll cover you with a blanket, they’ll leave you lying in a pool of your own blood. They’ll think of it that way — a pool of blood. The killer will like blood; he’ll use a knife. He’ll be the kind of killer that likes to gets up close to his victims, watch the light go out of their eyes. He’ll get up close to you. He’ll watch your light go out.
He’ll remember your short skirt, your mean-pretty face. You’ll be his first.
The others will leave you under your blanket. They’ll do all the things people say they’ll never do — open doors to mysterious rooms, go in the basement, split up, die. You will be under your blanket in your pool of blood. You will be a quiet hunched shadow, a twisted skirt and torn fingernails, empty eyes that one of the other girls will close with the palm of her hand like in the movies, your mouth open and softer than they remember it before. You will be the thing behind their quivering hands as they open that door they should have left shut. You will be the first. •
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Cathy Ulrich was the first girl in her class to need glasses. Her work has been published in various journals, including Flash Frog, Wigleaf and Crow Name.
Website | Twitter
You will be the first, you will set the plot in motion. With your perfect teeth and shiny hair, your handsome boyfriend (you were sleeping with him, of course, you couldn’t be the first girl if you weren’t, the kind of girl certain men say spreads her legs easy; say easy; say hey, baby, wanna come back to my place?), with your confident smile, your skirts that shimmied around your thighs when you walked. They’ll all remember a glimpse of your thigh, they’ll all remember you rolled your school uniform skirt at the top.
The killer will start with you. The killer has to start with someone. It’s always a girl. A girl who is, like you, pretty, but in a mean way, with dark eyeliner or thick mascara, or something thin and sharp behind her lips, something that looks like she may bite.
The other girls will talk about you behind your back, they’ll say bitch, they’ll say slut, they’ll say all the things they’ve heard men say. When you’re dead, they’ll cry hard, shimmering tears, she was so beautiful, she didn’t deserve this, but there will be a part of them that thinks — maybe you did.
They’ll wonder, to themselves, if your boyfriend will need comfort, will need care. They’ll wonder when he will be ready to move on.
They’ll cover you with a blanket, they’ll leave you lying in a pool of your own blood. They’ll think of it that way — a pool of blood. The killer will like blood; he’ll use a knife. He’ll be the kind of killer that likes to gets up close to his victims, watch the light go out of their eyes. He’ll get up close to you. He’ll watch your light go out.
He’ll remember your short skirt, your mean-pretty face. You’ll be his first.
The others will leave you under your blanket. They’ll do all the things people say they’ll never do — open doors to mysterious rooms, go in the basement, split up, die. You will be under your blanket in your pool of blood. You will be a quiet hunched shadow, a twisted skirt and torn fingernails, empty eyes that one of the other girls will close with the palm of her hand like in the movies, your mouth open and softer than they remember it before. You will be the thing behind their quivering hands as they open that door they should have left shut. You will be the first. •
Cathy Ulrich was the first girl in her class to need glasses. Her work has been published in various journals, including Flash Frog, Wigleaf and Crow Name.
Website | Twitter