bonnie

She’d changed her name from Mathilde to Bonnie, six months before they found her body in the garage of the house on September Street, rolled into a faded WalMart rug and stuffed into a ceiling crawl space. She’d hated Mathilde. It made her feel ethnic and, besides, kids made fun of her for it. Funny thing was, she never really outgrew it or escaped it. It was like that with a name. You can change all you want, but what you are named is what you are and, sometimes, who you will be. She never really was Bonnie. Never really know how to be a Bonnie. But, to her credit, she did try. She was 23, when her boyfriend, Drago Vdmilic, killed her with a rusty machete. Her gravestone would read Mathilde Cartwright. Her parents knew no Bonnies. They hardly recognized her body.