Whispers of women ,and men alike, the post-mortem of a shattered life, a clipped wing, an act not of an animal, for animals respect each other, but a human, yes the lowest form of life.
Was it her fault that she was alone, working in a remote village, away from her family, her home, just so she could help save lives?
She distributed sweets the day she got appointed, young, eager to help, ready to work so mothers and babies could be healthy. She wore white, a ray of light, a hope for life. A rarity in a system emptied by rot through and through.
But the darkness had to spread, and snatch her, make her its own, and it did so without fear or shame; making her just another statistic in a country where no one cares, and no one hears the silent screams of the woman raped ever day, every hour, every second.
We know it's dark, and as long as we are in the light, it is just a woman whose face is blurred on the 'breaking news'. It's only when the darkness reaches out and is spattered on our pristine self that we let it matter, or shed a tear, it is only then that it becomes more than just a statistic.