I haven't seen you for months, but I still remember your face. Oval-shaped. Slightly tan. Large, piercing emerald eyes outlined by thick, long, brown eyelashes. A perfectly sloped nose, slightly bubbly, perfectly symmetrical, cute as a button. Lips that were always slightly chapped, deliciously pink right near a strong, sculpted chin. You were beautiful, except you had a long, dangerously red, ripped, monstrous, scar that traveled from the corner of your left eye to the middle of your chin. Your sculpted chin. It sat there, begging to be stared at, demanding to be felt, screaming and screaming about all the secrets it knew. It was there, reminding me that deep down, past the beauty of your face, you were ugly. Horrid. A monster of a man. The beauty, pure beauty, of your face didn't transcend past your flawless skin. Your heart was black, broken, beaten, mean. You had no love. You had nothing sweet or delicate inside of you. You hated yourself as much as you hated the world, me, and your horrible scar. The only thing pleasant about you was your face, your beautiful face. So, when I heard you were murdered by a crazed gunman, I couldn't help but think: I hope he wasn't shot in the face, because that was the only beautiful thing about him. I hope that your murderer took pity on your beautiful, angelic face and instead shot you square in the heart. Your dirty, putrid, malicious, incorrigible heart. The heart that made it reasonable for me to think that you definitely deserved to be killed.