The concrete girl dived off of the top of the building like a crazed acrobat swinging from the trapeze. She looked beautiful with her hair blowing behind her like that, and her eyes were wide like the eyes of a doe in headlights. In slow motion, you could see that her body fell faster like a shooting star than her tears. As I watched the beautiful damsel plumet, I was amazed at such a bold move. I thought that it was all an act or a performance until I saw that there was no net to catch her. I tried to imagine she had super powers and would rear up in flight as she was mere inches above the ground.

With a loud splat, she hit the concrete like a bug on a windshield. It was no act. I imagined that when her skin smacked onto the ground, her soul left her body behind, delving deeper than the earth like some catch-and-release victimized fish. Her skin drooled thick ruby blood drowning whatever life beat monotonously still.

Onlookers stood there in awe at what they had just seen. A nun wearing a tired haggard face made the sign of the cross. As most of the people looked with shock and sadness in their eyes, I could only envy the concrete girl. I wanted the gruesomely beautiful painfully contorted body to be mine. I wanted the blood-stained concrete that proved impossible to clean to be my own mark. I wanted to be the concrete girl.