The warm sun felt nice on my skin. I held open a small book filled with pictures. If only I were real. I am the forgotten memory of a small girl. She does not believe in herself any more, and now I am nothing. My hair used to be light blue like the never ending sky, my eyes green like a sea of grass that rolls over the hills, and my skin creamy like a peach. She used to dance barefoot in the firefly lit night, she sang all of the right notes. Where is that girl who spoke seven different languages and was loved by everyone who knew her until the day it all changed - the day I changed. Now my hair is gray like the ashes of a lost friend, my eyes black like the ice-chilled night in the winter, and my skin white for I am dead, and she will be the same. I am put aside in her mind where there is nothing but the sun and the echo of her laughter. Now she is sad and does not want to play, she does not want to laugh, or draw anymore. Everyday I begin to turn to ash slowly - if only she could open her mind again and let me out to breathe in the real air and feel the real sun before I am gone. She will never smile again. Both my legs are gone, and my right ear is too; only small chunks of ash next to my cold almost lifeless body.