For my Sister I do not know Sarah Everard. I have never seen her face, nor am I acquainted with her smile. I will never hear her laugh, nor ask her favorite colour. I have not yet been to London, nor strolled its streets at night. I do not know Sarah Everard, yet she is my Sister. I have seen the bruises on her face, and imagined paling lips scrape pavement. Crimson stains the well-lit path. I have heard her muffled screams, that sunk into cracks in the footpath and nestled there against the grey. I know she was wearing bright colours that night. I hope they weren’t her favourite. All the right things, still meager protection against protector turned predator. The candlelight had hardly begun to illuminate London’s sorrow, when they stamped out it’s glow under heavy boots. Sisters in mourning, manhandled. Bruised and shoved against the pavement, mouth first. Policed. Stifled. Extinguished.
We did not know Sarah Everard, yet she is our Sister. We have seen our face reflected in hers. The shadow of candlelight remains in the softest gleam of tearstains and blood. For my Sister, Sarah Everard. For my Sister, catcalled. For my Sister, bruised. For my Sister, raped. For my Sister, murdered. For my Sister, silenced. For my Sister. For my Sister. For my Sister. Words by Justyna Dutka
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