I took them there.
I was happy they would help Rosalie.
She lived with her mom in a run down tenement by the Westside highway.
I remembered that she told me her dad also had his way with her.
She was beautiful with long brown straight hair, big round pleading eyes and a curvy sexy well developed body.
She used to wonder what clouds felt like.
She wanted to taste them.
I wondered what it felt like to be Rosalie.
We climbed the four flights to her door.
They asked her mom if they could talk to Rosalie.
They sat her down and surrounded her like the police do when they interrogate a criminal.
I sat with her mother.
The mother of Rosalie.
A short round woman with a blank personality, no beauty just a dumb smile with sniveling words.
They made my friend say nothing happened.
They didn’t help Rosalie.
When we left I couldn’t talk.
I stared out the side window looking off my shoulder at the kaleidoscope of sights going by.
I was dirty, for showing them where she lived.
I was lonely for Rosalie.
I swear to God I didn’t know they were going to ambush her.
They didn’t tell me that.
They just said they wanted to speak with Rosalie.
They scared her.
I loved her and believed in her.
And they abused her.
That was the last time I ever saw Rosalie.
I heard she died.
Selling what others took.
She didn’t see the car coming.
For they had blinded Rosalie.
Her mother roams the streets alone where her daughter used to be.
People move aside and let her pass.
She speaks out loud talking to no one.