She was found by her roommate in the hallway of their split-level bungalow at 1911 Pinehurst Road in the Hollywood Hills at approximately 9 a.m. and pronounced dead by paramedics at 9:28, February 22, 2001.
An external examination of the body revealed 47 stab wounds, 12 of which were later deemed fatal. Defense wounds were also observed on her right forearm and hands. Ashley’s neck organs had suffered extensive trauma, and her windpipe and right artery had been cut in two. I felt detached, numb. I wondered if my parents expected some sort of emotional display from me and how they’d handle it if I produced one, or if I didn’t. Should I cry? Should I drop my head into my hands and wait for my mother to say something? Should I excuse myself ? Nothing seemed appropriate, so instead I stayed silent.
For our first piano recital, we chose dresses that were the lightest shade of pink. Mine was cotton and hers was silk, but when we sat side by side on the bench to play our duet from a book called The Pleasure of Your Company, the colors matched perfectly. In the spring, something weird came up. Suddenly my searches about Ashley brought pages upon pages of celebrity gossip sites. They were in a variety of languages, German, Spanish, French — it was initially hard to make sense of what was the actual news and what was part of the internet’s circular game of telephone.
“Ashton Kutcher’s TRAGIC NIGHT” read the cover line. Looking at it made me feel annoyed. Poor, poor, rich, gorgeous, living celebrity Ashton. Did any readers actually feel empathy for him? The story inside was a doozy. I learned that Ashley and Ashton had met through friends, and they were set to attend some Grammy Awards after-parties that night. Ashton had arrived at her house around 10 p.m. but had gotten no answer when he knocked on the door.
We lost touch, as had happened with so many other people so many times before. How exactly had it happened? Gradually, then suddenly, but also in fits and starts, confusions and forgotten birthdays, faded memories and rituals. The scales tipping toward more important moments lived among other people in other places in other rooms far away from each other.
Honestly, after watching the documentary; I totally forgot about Ashton. I really felt for the women and Ashley story is everyone’s story, following your dreams. He wasn’t even in my thoughts after watching it.
Red wine stain
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