Her name was Hazel
Her name was Hazel. Everybody knew her as the butcher's daughter but she would always be the sad little girl next door to me. We used to live in this small village called Saint Marcus. Her family came to town when I was about seven years old. I remember the first time I saw her, it was a rainy day. I was standing in front of my house, cold and wet. She saw me through her window and she came out of her house.
"Oh, darling. You look like you need help" she said softly.
She loved to speak like a lady, I guess she loved to think that she was more than a poor peasant living in a poor village.
I could smell food before I even entered her house. It was meat and beans. My favorite food. She made me wait at the front door and she brought me a towel.
"That will make you feel better," she whispered while she was helping me to get dry, "I'm Hazel, nice to meet you".
When she was talking she used to look at you right in the eyes to let you know that you had her full attention. That was the only thing she said to me that day.
She was neither talkative nor easy-going. Every time we saw each other, we would just walk in silence. During those silences, I would look at her and I would see sadness and sorrow in her eyes. She tried her best to make everybody think that she was happy. But silences betrayed her.
"I want to get out of here and see the world!" she confessed one day, "I just want more, is that wrong?"
I guess not.
" I wish I were adopted by rich people so that I would not have to work!"
I agree she was very shallow. For example, she has always criticised my look.
"Poor thing! You look like you spent the day in a rubbish!"
Then, one day she offered me to go to London with her and start a new life there. I agreed. We walked for four days until we reached the city.
She started to work as a prostitute in a poor district called White Chapel. During eight months, she started to work at 6PM and she finished at 7 AM. One day, she didn't come home. I waited for two days. Then, the owner showed up because she have not payed the rent. He saw that she was not there. He called the cops and waited for them with me. Eventually, the police came but they had something to tell us. Hazel has been found dead three nights ago. Apparently she has been murdered.
"Sir, are you the owner of this place?" asked the police officer to Patrick, the owner.
"Yes, I am" he answered.
“Does the furniture belong to you?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything that belongs to the victim in this appartment"
"Nothing apart from this cat" he said pointing his finger at me.