She was running frantically, she was running scared and she was running bare.
Dirty strips of decomposing cloth were hanging down her waist; but as she kept running past the tourists that were gathering between the Blue Mosque and the church of Aghia Sofia, they dropped one after the other. The travellers and the tourists slung off from in front of her in sheer fear. They looked at her with fright in their eyes, jaws hanging idly, eyes swelling in their sockets.
Dried mud was falling off in flakes from her tortured body. Dirt covered her diminishing tangled hair; thick knots were missing, leaving spots of bloody skull behind. Her skin was stiff and rigid, breaking off at the elbows and the knees as she kept increasing the pace; fractured bones showed underneath. She kept running fiercely, shouting incoherent sounds, dry tears falling from her glassy eyes; her lower jaw had been dislocated, her tongue had been severed at the root.
She kept running, naked and scared, covered in dried blood, mud and dirt. She flew in front of the Algerian consulate -curious, disturbed eyes followed her- and she reached the packed Taksim Square. She reached the centre of the square and there, she dropped dead.
Ten kilometres away, the police was arresting a young man for unearthing his dead girlfriend’s body. She had been buried for one full year, a victim of domestic violence…
– I swear to God, she was alive! Alive, I’m telling you! Alive!