[ CW ] Write a story that ends with `` I love her . That 's why I killed her '' .

Picture, if you will, an orange dusk swallowing the docks of a city somewhere in middle America. The city, more a town really, is just now beginning to grow fat with the burgeoning golden age of post-WWII USA. The town hums with activity and even as the hour turns late and proper men and women return to their homes there is a sense of purpose about the town. Trade flows in on the river, and all around there is an almost oppressive sense of purpose; each and every person striving and thriving together in the dawn of the nuclear age. 
 
 But try to picture such a town, on a Thursday, as the sun is beginning to set and the great wheels of industry grind to a halt. Some few unlucky souls still toil away on the dock, but beyond that the activity in town is the activity of hooligans and teeny boppers. Some of the younger ones begin walking home as they notice the setting sun, but others still linger as dusk becomes night. 
 
 Among these adolescents and malcontents there is no shortage of energy or angst. They seem to come alive with the night, and in the glow of the neon signs dusk stretches on into the night. It is in that electric dusk of Old America that these would be rebels- veterans of *the war* and future protesters of the ones that follow- dance and sing and scream to the world `` **I am still alive! **''. 
 
 Some shout louder than others, yet there are some which shout nothing at all. They cling to the sides of the dance halls, they nurse their beers and simply smile sadly at their friends as they twirl in the night. Some of them stare longingly at what they wish they had, some simply know that they whatever it is they want it is not this, and others look at those twirling drunkards and stew in the darkness of the corners. 
 
 Such is the way of life. In victory and good fortune we fritter away what we have, and spend our brief years of respite celebrating instead of preparing, drunk on the virtuous liquor of peace. Such is the attitude of this town. They drink in their prosperity, absorbed so completely by the ambrosia of success that they are blind to their own aches and pains. If they feel sick when they're done drinking then just always be drinking, and they do n't notice the sores widening in their skin if they do n't look in the mirror. Ca n't see the rotting flesh if it's covered in makeup. Ca n't spot the wolf in sheep's clothing. 
 
 Picture the town again, now fully in the dark. Some lovebirds stumble home through the streets, and slowly but surely the town is truly going to rest for the night. Drunk and stupid the townspeople wander home, drunk so that they can not see the town without its blindingly divine light. There is trash everywhere, vomit in the gutter, and air crackles with ozone as sign after sign winks out. Only the traffic light in the center of town and the diner proudly proclaiming **OPEN 24 HOURS** illuminate the town. 
 
 A handful of police now drive through the streets once an hour or so, their spot lights occasionally blowing up a corner of the town. They find the forgotten ones everywhere. On benches, and in the street, emptying their bladders on walls, and simply asleep on others. All these lonely souls danced in the night, but were forgotten. Like so many piles of trash they have left behind. Most work odd jobs, or do menial labor. Many are fresh from Korea, with money in their pockets and no mind but to spend it forgetting what they've been doing the past year. Broken, downtrodden, and cast off. 
 
 Among these forgotten souls is a girl. In another world she is the picturesque american teeny bopper; she wears a sundress, delicate white shoes with socks the same color, in her golden hair is a bow, bright red. It is not at the homecoming dance that she stands, nor does she spin across the floor of an elegant ballroom. Instead she stands in an alley, giving the man across from her her best'Come hither' look. 
 
 Through tearful eyes the man looks her up and down. Forgotten or not he remembers her. Remembers her in the halls of highschool. Remembers her as she is in a picture he's kept over his heart every day for years. He remembers her scent and he remembers her voice, yet the girl in front of him is almost a stranger. The white sundress she always loved so much, that she was so proud of, was stripped down to almost nothing. There were no longer any sleeves to speak of, and the length of it barely went halfway to her knees. She had filled out just enough for the dress to barely fit, accentuating all of her even in the low light of the alley. 
 
 `` It's one-fifty to go all the way, but I can do other stuff for less. I'll use my mouth for fifty and a smoke.'' 
 
 The gutters are filling as he looks at her, a drop falls. He never expected to have to have this conversation. He'd always expected her to be frozen in time somehow, as if when he came back everything would just pick up where he left it. But time had gone on without him, and he had no idea what to do about it. 
 
 `` Do you even remember me?'' 
 
 The girl laughs, not understanding, as she looks at him. Her eyes widen as recognition sets in. Life has not been good to her, she's been forgotten by most everyone. Now someone was wondering if *she* remembered *him*? And all at once she knew that voice, like deja vu from something you're *sure* you dreamed the night before. 
 
 `` Oh my... Tommy, I can explain'' 
 
 He hears her say his name and the levees break. He has been denying that this stranger could be her, could ever possible be her, but she speaks his name in that way she does and he knows. And in knowing he sees the world for what it really is. The facade breaks and he understands without her saying another word what she is, and he understands that it is the world that has reduced her to this state. And in the back of his mind he remembers the war, and *knows* that more are coming. *Knows* that things only get worse from here. And he *knows* that there is no turning back for her. 
 
 Tommy snaps, and leaves his former love broken and alone in a dark and forgotten alley. It is a police man that finds her, dead with a hole in her head. Days go by and a shadow settles over the city. The nights are warm and stifling, and all the alcohol in the world ca n't make the dancers feel safe. There is an uncomfortable understanding now, among these miscreants, that the system serves them not. They are all forgotten, and even when one is murdered the police do n't stir. 
 
 Justice for the forgotten girl comes a week later. Tommy Algard, a veteran of the Korean war, shoots himself. In the sparse apartment he's managed to rent there is little other than a bed, a radio and a table. On the bed sits Tommy, bullet in his brain, and on the table a newspaper headlined **JANE DOE SLAIN, KILLER AT LARGE** 
 
 Taped to the paper: *Her name is Samantha, I love her. That's why I killed her. *
