Letters Written in White

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 wit...