Suicide Sally

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Suicide Sally

She’s such a doll

She uses razor blades

As tear drops fall

She’s so pretty

This is true

But still

She’s jealous

That she’s not you

Her smile is so divine

Her pain and anguish is too real

Yet she is told just how to feel

Suicide Sally

She’s such a doll

When the time comes

When she makes the call

A cry for help?

No. Not at all

Suicide Sally

Such a doll

A smile so divine

Will you help at all?

You will wait

Till blood drops fall.

*~*~*

For the first time in his career, Detective James Johnson felt a cold shiver run up his spine. This case was becoming more and more bizarre. He looked at the blood streaks on the cold white siding of the bathtub. Inside was seventeen year old Vicki Sanders. Her motionless naked corpse lay covered in a murky brown liquid. Blood pooled in a thick sticky mess on the once vivid white bath rug. There was no indication of foul play. The trail of blood originated from the gash in the teen’s wrist. On the checkered marble floor was undisturbed globs of blood. No finger prints. No foot prints. Nothing.

Normally, Detective Johnson would rule this as a simple suicide, but there was nothing normal about this case. Three teen women in the last three days. All dead in the bathtub. Razorblades. Their told history indicated nothing remotely fitting the profile of a disturbed teen. Happy home lives and potentially bright futures.

Vicki Sanders. Prom Queen last year. This was puzzling to Detective Johnson. Just like the other two young victims, Vicki was set to attend an Ivy league college in the spring. She was loved by all, had no enemies, and was engaged to a law student. All in all, Detective Johnson thought of Vicki as the model for perfection. Certainly not a candidate for suicide.

Then the oddest part. The thing about this case that gave him the creeps. The poem. The same poem in plan view appeared at every crime scene. A calling card? Are we looking at a serial killer? No evidence of foul play.

Detective Johnson spent the last few days trying to put the pieces together. The poem was titled “Suicide Sally” and was written by Sally Ford the famous poet days before she took her own life. Strangest of all, The poem naturally formed the shape of a young woman.

He fought with himself for a moment. A part of him wanted to call this a closed case. Suicide. He knew better. It was at the top of the list in college. Patterns. When there are patterns in death, it almost always means murder. But then, there is usually forensic evidence to back up that theory. None. No evidence, nothing connecting the victims, no motive. Just a poem.

*~*~*

Judith couldn’t get the damn grease stain to come off of the stove. She scrubbed and scrubbed, using every ounce of muscle god had bestowed upon her. She watched the course green scrub pad change color. The smell of ammonia from the bleach mixture started to make her head swim.  Why must you make such a mess when you cook burgers? She silently cursed her husband Hank and his desire to cook cheeseburgers on her brand new stove top. Why can’t he just stay out of my kitchen? It isn’t like I have a problem cooking. I enjoy it! I don’t go out to his garage and try to tune up my curling iron do I?

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