June 14, 2011
I am not myself. But this feeling is not new. My body is vibrating in response to familiarity. I pull the covers off of me and breathe a sigh of relief that I can, finally, get out of bed. The hardwood floor is cold under my bare feet as I go look one more time at the mirror with a bunch of cracks, hanging on the pale, white wall. I can’t help but hate the stranger staring back at me. Her hair is a mess of dark brown. Her black eyes rimmed with full lashes, and dark spheres. Her neck bruised and raw. The scratches on her chest, arms, and legs. But mostly, I hated her blood-streaked nightgown. What did she do? What happened in her life that turned her into this? Then it dawned on me. She is just like me. I do know how she feels. The reasons for her appearance are the same for mine. But still, I hate her because of one reason, which brought me into my own situation. For one reason alone that I hate her……she killed everyone I loved, to get back at me for killing hers.

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