Anna

She came to him suddenly, an image so real her face seemed to burn into his eyes. Her brown hair was short, and it curled beneath her ears in a becoming way. It framed her heart shaped face, making her startling green eyes stand out against her pale, olive tinged skin. A splash of freckles doused her her cheeks. She stood there, her white dress gently flowing in the wind, her innocence emanating around her. She was eighteen, and nothing.1

He sat down at his desk and began to write. He had been searching for the heroine of his story for months, and now she had appeared to him. “Anna,” he whispered, as he laid his pen to the page and scrawled the date in the corner of the page. 2

He was uneasy, unsure of the plot he had outlined in his mind in those long months of blank pages. It was a classic story – the loss of innocence. The naturalist in him had been longing to write such a tale. He hated cities, hated the direction the world was turning. Progress was inevitable, people told him. This isn't progress, he thought, we're sacrificing our innocence for the machine, selling our souls to the mechanical devil. He had needed a heroine of such pious perfection that the world would mourn her death. 3

"Her death will save our country, our world." He paused, confused about the hesitance that filled his mind. He knew her story must be a tragic one, her death must be shocking and grotesque. "Her pain will bring about change, I can feel it. She must die so that our world will stop this spiral to hell."4

Months passed, and he labored over the story. The text flowed from pen to page with abandon, filling the white space with the beauty of his words. This will be my greatest work, he thought, as he hunched at his wooden desk in room that was silent from all but the scratch of his pen. He crafted her life, a simple girl from a simple town. She wore plain dresses of cotton, an apron tied at her waist as she helped her mother in the kitchen. She was known in the town for her beautiful face and her sweet disposition. Her mother's friends were jealous of the lovely girl, and often told her mother this. “I wish my Janey was as pretty as your Anna. Anna'll have no trouble catching herself a husband.” Her mother simply smiled politely and nodded her head, her green eyes twinkling as bright as her daughter's did. 5

Anna was happy with this simple life, but she longed for bigger and better things. She couldn't bare to tell her mother this, but she wanted to move to the city and study to be an actress, a painter, a poet – anything to escape the routine life of baking pies and sweeping floors. She couldn't bear to tell her mother, and she didn't. She left a note on the kitchen table, weighted with a polished stone from the garden. 6

Sitting on the train, watching her country life fade into the bustle of the city, she smiled softly. Her green eyes closed, and she allowed the beautiful noise to wash over her. No cows mooing in pastures, no boys on bicycles hollering as they sped down the dusty streets. The pittering of cars and the shouting of men selling peanuts on corners was music to her ears. Her eyes opened, and she began her life as a city girl.7

He dropped his pen. He didn't want to keep writing. He didn't want her beautiful new beginning to turn into a sour end. Her excitement and innocence moved him. He took a breath, and lifted his pen. He wrote for days on end, working until his fingers threatened to break. 8

Her life turned. She was too innocent, they said, for the movies. She was beautiful sure, but she wasn't sex and sex is what sells. She took a job as a seamstress, sewing for fifteen hours a day in a cramped room, filled with girls with shattered dreams. Her dazzling eyes faded to a broken jade, and her freckles stood out against her ghostly skin. She returned to her tiny apartment in a dirty building each night, and collapsed on her creaky bed. The exhaustion never ceased.9

He continued to write, pen flying over the paper. The faster I write, he thought, the faster I can be done with her. He paused long enough to wipe a single tear from his eye, as he began the final chapter.10

The bell rang, and the day ended. She put on her worn brown coat and filed out with the rest of the girls. It was late, and the street lamps lit the street with a ghostly tint. She began the twenty blocks back to her apartment, hunched in her coat against the chill November wind. She turned the corner, and saw two men sitting on the curb.11

“What a pretty thing,” said the first man, standing with a leacherous grin displaying his missing front tooth. “I do believe she's the finest young thing I've seen all day.”12

The second man also stood. “Too skinny,” he remarked, “Her eyes are all sunken in. Poor little thing looks tired.”13

“She could do with a little pick me up,” the first man said, rubbing his unshaven chin as if in thought. “I wonder if she'd like a little fun.”14

She stood frozen, clutching her coat against her chest. She swallowed hard, and looked down. “Excuse me, gentlemen. It's been a long day, and I'd just like to go home now."15

The second man stepped towards her, “Oh, but miss, we'd like to wake you up! What I've got here is better than any cup of coffee you'll ever have.” They pushed her into the alley.16

A man that worked in the bakery found her the next morning, as he opened the door into the alley to throw away the first batch of muffins. He saw the brown coat at his feet, and saw a slender hand peeking from around the garbage. When he saw her, he crouched down and felt her pale wrist for a pulse. He turned on his heels and ran down the block to inform the police.17

She was topless, her pale blue skirt bunched around her waist and her white shirt crumpled beside her. She stared at the detective, her pale green eyes open in an expression of shock and sadness. The detective gently laid the coat over her pale body, and found her wallet inside the pocket. He pulled her identification card, and read the name. “Anna Wilson.” He shook his head and stood back up. "Poor girl, can't be more than twenty."18

The pen stopped scratching, and he lifted his head. He rose from his chair, legs weak from depression and his months of writing. He tried to sleep through the night, tossing and turning from one nightmare after another. She was haunting him, this Anna. The guilt he felt made his pillow wet with tears. He rose at down. He showered and shaved, and dressed in a clean pair of slacks and a blue dress shirt. His tired wife handed him the paper, and he sat down to a cup of coffee. He opened the paper, his blank mind barely registering the headlines. He lifted his coffee to his lips, and turned the page. As he dropped the coffee, his mind didn't register the burning sensation on his chest and legs. He didn't hear the ceramic mug shatter on the tiled floor. All he could understand were the words on the second page. “Girl, 20, Found Dead”. The place was New York. The girl was Anna Wilson, the beautiful bright-eyed girl from rural Pennsylvania.