I was eleven years old when I killed myself. I was tired of the bullying at school and I did the only thing I knew to do that would make it all stop; I jumped. I had walked by the bridge every day after school, so I knew where to go. One night I couldn’t take it any longer, so I rode my bike to the bridge.

I stood on the edge of the bridge, my knees trembling and my heart pumping. I was too scared to jump myself so I thought I shouldn’t. I went to turn around and leave the dreaded edge, when suddenly I felt a cold embrace touch my back. I thought it was just the wind, but then I was sent over the edge. As I fell I looked back to see who pushed me. I couldn’t have ever imagined the sight I saw. I watched as my shadow morphed into an echo of my skin. My shadow had left its place behind me, and in my moment of weakness, it pushed me away. Forever. The last thing I saw, before I was engulfed by the shallow river beneath me, was my shadow taking my place. It wore my face and took my place.

When I died, my shadow took my life. In my place, my shadow took over. Now, in Heaven I sit. Forced to watch my life go by.