Seagulls Give the Eulugy

Meet

Long Island, NY

Sitting in her sheer bathrobe on her third story balcony, she picks up the local newspaper. In the tall windows next to her, she can see the reflection of both her lithe body and the glistening ocean. While sipping her Italian coffee, she flips to the article about the most recent murdered girl, found in the marshes of that very area.… An opinion piece by a former detective turned investigative-reporter, who has covered this string of murders over the past decade. She scours with intent curiosity, focusing on this excerpt:

She was an opera star… never given the chance. Her body lay in turbid waters, amidst variegated weeds, sunken, buckling down into a bloody stony sand.

Her killer was an upstanding citizen beloved by all, in the people’s eyes, the police's eyes, because this lieutenant/sheriff/sergeant suffered from such cognitive dissonance, that he could not digest how such clear indisputable evidence, completely devoid of verisimilitude, derelict of any apocryphal tracings, could in fact, exist in reality. He had no honor for the women’s lives, no empathy for the ways in which they perished. He therefore chose to cover-up a serial killer’s crimes. Refusing to release 911 tapes years later, after there was no ongoing investigation, protracting the egregious cover-up.

Another woman was a fashion designer from an abusive home. One parent died. The other assaulted her psychologically ongoing with no remorse. She was left with nothing and no-one. The state failed her. Her surroundings failed her. She resorted to prostitution because she had no other choice. Car repairs to get to a retail job? Doctor’s bills for a costly, yet very treatable, medical condition? No-one was there. No-one volunteered to help. Because she was pretty, she was creative, she was smart. How could someone like her possibly need help? So she was led to her death. At the hands of a demented yet socially proper serial killer, preying on society’s most vulnerable.

A third young woman, escaping a domestic violence situation, never knew her father, resorting to alcohol and barbiturates as a means to cope… her naked body submerged in brackish pockets by the bay, waves splashing… as if the salt of the ocean water lapping over her decaying corpse replaced flowers tossed atop her casket. The adorning or tribute had to come from aquamarine life, as there was no human life that cared. Her eulogy given by seagulls, swooping overhead.

A fourth woman, also engaging in the act of prostitution, struggled throughout her life… a care-taker from the start, she was constantly providing for those around her, even when it was their duty or social responsibility to provide for her… a gifted academic, she had a flair for writing. Both prolific and daring, if only she could carve out the time to dedicate to her books, articles, opinion pieces… novels, memoirs, screen plays... Yet because no-one around her could see her pain… and many wanted her physical beauty dismantled… jealousy and insecurity proliferated when she entered a room… her stunning look did not garner help as one would think or assume; there were always strings attached, a hidden agenda, nothing was ever free… she never found the love that she needed, when she needed it… when the police found her, she was unrecognizable. Her haters’ wishes ultimately implemented by a psychopath.

And of course, there’s more… cases. Court cases, psychological cases, law precedent cases, social work cases that fell through the cracks, 5 flights down, no safety net. Only concrete and blind eyes to break the fall… Cases where “victims” are debased, drinks imbibed with drugs laced, found in their system… the deceased systematically traced, bodies outlined in chalk. But not this time… Snow-white chalk doesn’t go on the bottom of the ocean floor.

What did the majority of these women have in common? They didn’t want to do what they were doing. They didn’t have a choice. They were escaping some type of hardship or abuse, that demanded resources as a resolution. Their beauty, intelligence, creativity and/or work ethic would not get them out of this type of jam… or assault… or insidious catastrophic nightmare. Their origins consisted of a deleterious crumbling of the very structure that was designed to support them, or purported to protect them… Yet outsiders failed to see. They confused them with one of 3 other categories that do actually exist, yet not to the extent that is convenient for one to assume.

There’s the group that doesn’t belong there by any means, they are in desperate need of social support, yet their pain is being denied. Said women above, group 1. They are resorting to this due to circumstance… there’s group 2, gold-diggers, heartless, the manipulative segment, that do in-fact have criminal tendencies. They are not forthright… group 3, drug addicts who probably need medical intervention more than anything, they need rehab. They also need the will and desire to help themselves. They have to want to get clean… and group 4, those who actually enjoy it and treat it as a business, operating within ethical confines and clear, fair perimeters, like any other functional business would. Except in this case, there is always a hidden danger and safety is never identical to other “businesses.” Group 1, those who are simply resorting to this, operating in an ethical capacity (towards others), and never belonging there, never wanting to be there, are those who were murdered this time around, in succession.

It is paramount to identify what group one falls in, in order to treat the situation accordingly and do the right thing. Help those in need. To flail swooping generalizations with little or no context, caveats, or care that “one size does NOT fit all” is foolish at best. Murderous at worst.

So the burial ground and the ocean became one. No matter what category the women fell into, they didn’t deserve that outcome. How cowardice to prey on said population! What could be more vulnerable than a naked female, unarmed? She doesn’t even have clothes to protect her from the elements.

What’s most relevant at this time is category number one. The opera singer, the fashion designer, the maternal giver, the academic… Being labeled a prostitute was not their identity at any point in time. They were experiencing something unwanted, as a means to an end, because the people around them were abusive, wanted to see them fail, denied the issues that they were unable to relate to / see, or acted with gross negligence by refusing to help someone so remarkable/talented in an emergency situation or a time of need… because if you help someone capable, they’re just going to outshine you. And human nature, when unevolved and weak, doesn’t like that. They don’t like to empower or save, they like to turn a blind eye. And live in a state of self-delusion.

So if that was never one’s identity, eventually, over time, like water wearing down rock, either PTSD or CPTSD will ensue, as it manifests in those who have been trafficked, molested, repeatedly assaulted and/or raped, which will inevitably be the result of long-term (and possibly short-term) prostitution when entered from a weaken state, with little to no interest in that transactional space, with the term prostitution being used vaguely (as it also includes sick verbal fantasies for the other party and bdsm, playing either role, and not necessarily intercourse or ejaculation as one might naturally surmise)…

Therefore, not only were these women 1) already at a disadvantage, not properly supported or loved, and 2) ensuing assaults, harassment, and abuse that would not be accepted in the general population, and despite popular belief, were never consented to or asked for… but! There was a trifecta. Icing on the triple layered cake. 3)People, not just serial killers, felt entitled to attack, disrespect, belittle… censure, blanket with venomous vitriol and heavy invectives…these rather strong individuals, to endure what they have…. Simply because they somehow fell into this dark, distorted world, where their needs and wants were never a priority. To say that entry was a choice, is a lie.

__________________________

Her husband comes downstairs. She realizes that the days/weekends that he has claimed work related travel directly coincide and coincidentally fall on the days/weekends that this series of women, i.e. prostitutes, have been reported missing in their community, or shortly before a body was discovered… she looks at the scratches on his face and asks him what happened… “A cat,” he replies, as her gaze shifts to the long stiletto nails of the most recent unidentified victim, found last night, near their property…. She gets up to serve him the scrambled eggs with black truffle salt, blueberry pancakes, and the virgin bloody mary that they typically share on Saturday mornings, and thinks to herself, “I am so above these women. They were just whores. They deserved it. I would never sell my body.” And therein lies the collusion.