Letters Written in White
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I’m dead. I’m cold and alone and I’m dead. There’s no air in my lungs. My chest is as cold and hollow as a cave on a snow-capped mountainside. My heart no longer beats there. Frigid winds whistle through my ribs and the sadness inside me weeps like my favorite tree. Days ago, I met with death face to face. The mirror, our meeting place. My two darkened green eyes stared deeply into hers. I tilted my head to the side. She did too. “It’s time,” I whispered. “It’s time,” she whispered. And with that I turned away from her, the woman in the mirror who knew all of my secrets and all of my pain. I walked away from her and yet we’d never been closer than we were at that moment. The inner struggle was over. No more arguing with the woman in the mirror. No more arguing with myself. The choice was made. She was the victor. Or was I? That was the day Riah Winter died.