Exhibit 39

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Begin excerpt:
 Red lights abound,
 A flickering side-show masking cute frowns,
 Dressed up all pretty;
 just want to be found.
 Empty glasses accenting nothing
 but young blood craving something; more than this nothing. 
  
 Things seems good,
 potentially normal.
 He wants to chat,
 thinks I’m immoral.
  
 I tell him to fuck off.
 Moods seem dampened,
 But I bite back the tears.
  
 Because after all;
 it was just a compliment, nothing weird.
 At least that’s what my best friend seemed to think.
  
 But how does that make me a slut when all I did was let him know you exist?
  
  
 Hours later the bars all closed.
 My spirits had lifted; I suppose.
  
 Said my farewell and let her drive; away.
  
 because she was always more poised than I…
 …thought I could be.
  
 Can’t question that, because it’s easier just to trust she’s got your back. And if she has my back, I’m sure she has her own…you can’t defend another if you’re all exposed. Can you?
 And if I can’t honestly say I have my own, then who’s got her back? Because I clearly don’t…since I’m the bitch who let her drive away; all fucked up on oxy cut with glaze.
  
 Too late now,
 I say to myself;
 Walking down the street,
 On my way to the house.
  
 Few minutes later,
 phone makes a ding,
 weights all seem lifted,
 when she says she’s home safe.
  
 And that makes one. I thought to myself, eyeing that same shadow across the way. It belongs to the creep that I’d kept at bay. But now it’s all dark, and I’m not feeling sure…that I could do it again. Alone. Here.
 He probably lives on campus, probably not a bad guy. Just a little pushy when hyped up on rye. The rhyming is lazy when I’m all worked up. Thing’s don’t quite flow and we all know what they serve at bars. I could try and rhyme alcohol for you but I don’t think it would matter, in communicating this learned fucking reflex that causes me to cower…when I see a man. When I don’t know what he’s doing over there.
  
 Across the way.
  
 I’m sure it’s nothing. That little flash every thirty seconds is probably his phone.
 Still; my hand is on that whistle…the best gag gift I ever got.
  
 And I’m sending this message because I just want you to know, that I don’t feel quite right being alone…right now. And maybe the drugs just cloud up my mind, maybe his shadow is nothing but kind, but maybe I don’t feel like he’s reassured me of that the way he touched me without asking.
 So, I’ll send you a text in a minute or two,
 When I walk through that door we’ll know I was a fool,
 for shivering and quivering in these fucking high heels,
 hoping to God he isn’t the kind of tool,
 who likes my false advertisement; because as far as I’m concerned my light belongs to you.
  
 So try not to worry,
 I’ll be home in a fetf–
  
 -Excerpt from exhibit 39, sent in the early hours of June 11th, moments before the incident took place. 

Igor

A fleeting whisper of stagnant hope, a momentary lapse of the path you’ve walked. A hand, crying-silver, reaching for something real, a consort. You tried.

Ugly, he said. You knew, you always did, the tar-like cruelty of the rougher kids made sure you couldn’t forget, that you’ll never be more than disgusting to them.

Still you reached, grasped, needed his hand. The word flattened you, as if you’d kissed a train with somewhere more important to be. Ugly, he repeated, and your world came crashing down. The whispering lingers, how could she let herself hope?