The last thing I saw was the dirt on his sneaker. Before that, I remember hearing him breathing, really fast and shallow, and whimpering too, like he was about to cry. I saw his leg shake. I saw him drop the bat.

I didn't know Conor very well. I'd seen him at school, joking with his jock-y friends, or sitting with that blonde girl who always wore the cutesy ribbon in her hair. I think she was a cheerleader, and that made sense I guess; he was the type to hang around with cheerleaders. Or any pretty girl, really.

Apparently I wasn't one of them, though. I was on the academic decathalon, and I did theater. I was in honors-Latin, and the student council. Cute guys like him didn't hang around with mousey girls like me, and that was fine. I had the notion that even though I thought he was gorgeous physically, he'd probably get on my nerves after a while. He was loud, and vulgar - nothing like anything else in my life. I liked things organized and scheduled and clean. He dipped his fries in his milkshake.

I hope Kaitlyn doesnt feel bad about all this. All she did was invite me, because she knew I kind of liked Conor. It wasn't her fault I gave in. He smelled nice, and I'd just had the first drink of my life, and then some. I looked different this night. My hair was down, and I'd styled it a little, and put in my contacts. Kaitlyn had let me borrow her skirt, and had done my make-up. I'm not even sure Conor recognized me; I'm pretty sure all he saw was my cleavage.

To be honost, I liked the attention. I liked him looking at me like that, even if he was half drunk, and maybe a little high. I liked the way it felt when he brushed my arm. I liked the feeling of my heart fluttering in my throat when he asked me to go upstairs with him.

I didn't like the way he spoke to me once we got there. I stopped liking the way he touched me. He didn't like my attitude. I didn't like the way he grabbed me, and he didn't like that I started to scream.

He panicked, and when I didn't stop, he got desperate. I remember the first blow felt hot somehow, a burning in the side of my head that was quickly covered up by the shock of the second and third blow. He was stronger than he thought he was, and had hit me at just the right angle.

I fell and stopped moving, couldn't move anymore. I was screaming in my head for my limbs to move, and nothing responded. And then my thoughts got fuzzy, and I got really sleepy, and the last thing I saw was his sneakers, covered in dust from the diamond.

At the end of the night, I didn't know him any better than I had before.

In truth, I was murdered by a perfect stranger.