She couldn’t have been more than nineteen when she left home to become a star. It took less than two weeks for the big city to swallow her whole. And that would be all anyone knew of her if she hadn’t found me one early morning in the darkness of pre-dawn. I don’t know her name, she wouldn’t say, but I will never forget her nor the haunting way she kept repeating . . .

My legs are behind the dumpster.

Like a zombie she had no other thought but to find her lost limbs. I tried to calm her, how her tremulous voice made me shiver. It was no use, her mind had left long ago. So I did what I do, I used my special talent. I made myself translucent and entered within.

Bey, as I call her, had been a beauty from the start. Great hair, expressive eyes, slim figure but more than anything else, she had fantastic legs. She wore short skirts and high heels and got most anything she asked for in her sleepy home town thanks to those legs. Watching TV she saw the shiny cars, the sparkly diamonds and the glamourous clothes and figured nothing could stop her getting it all.

Answering the newspaper ad, for a modeling job that first week in the city, she figured was just step one to hitting it big. Her head was in the clouds. Bey never saw the trap coming. Stuff gets cloudy after that, I think they must have drugged her. A small closet sized room, hand cuffs and men, lots of men, swirled in what was left of her mind. Struggling for any shred of sanity she would look at her legs and try to tell herself that someday she would escape, someday she would be a star, someday her beautiful legs were still going to . . .

My legs are behind the dumpster.

Why was Bey killed? I searched her shredded mind for the answer. I saw a man, short rotund he put something around her neck, he tightened it. She hadn’t noticed dying, drugs will do that. No, she didn’t even fully realize she was dead, much less why. I moved to the image of the man. He had a pointed nose that made me think of a rat and beady eyes and smelled of cigarettes and blood. Blood, Bey’s floating spirit had watched him put her torso and legs in separate black plastic bags. That was how she knew where her legs were. The small man had a small sports car with a small trunk. That was why he had cut them off and left them behind. He couldn’t fit in her whole body, I saw as I entered his mind. He was in a hurry, he had a lot of trash to dispose of before he left for . . . somewhere south, tropical? He survived by never staying anywhere too long. He’d rent a small building, trap a few women, keep them drugged, make a load of money then liquidate the whole thing, women too. They were just objects to him to be used and thrown away.

My legs are behind the dumpster.

Her voice was urgent. After all that she had been through, Bey only wanted one thing, for her body and legs to be together. My astral form could only move from her place of death to the dump where her torso lay. I kept trying to find someone to tell, but all the businesses near her legs were closed. I could find no one to tell. The man was getting away, too. He had planned to return for her legs but his time ran out. He had a plane to catch. I could feel Bey fade as the sun rose. I had failed, her soul joined the mindless dark and the murderer flew away free, for now. And still I hear the echo of her plea from the shadows as I passes empty businesses . . .

My legs are behind the dumpster.


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