I fell victim to death on a cold, arid day where color was mute and the symphony of the birds was lifeless.

Isla had gone just a week before. I was wearing ragged, sole less sneakers and my feet were frozen but I refused to change them because they used to be my father’s.

It happened almost too sudden. I felt the hot breath of demise on the back of my neck, a quick calm in a snowstorm.

By the time I had the thought of pulling away, it was too late. It’s claws dug into my skin, effacing the last of my memories. Life flashed before my eyes—it left too soon.

My body went numb as the hours passed and my attempts at fighting failed. A tear froze on my eyelashes and my hands unwillingly gripped the snow.

I caught a glimpse of who murdered me: a pale figure of sadness, bony hands with nails too long, choppy blonde hair, and blue eyes.

It was obvious who that was, a moment of clarity so overwhelming that I felt mocked—it was me. A poorly painted portrait yet I couldn’t mistake it for anyone else.

Everything became calm again. I relinquished my grasp on life, exhaling a cold breath from my chapped lips. In my last moments I welcomed death with open arms.

It somehow brought peace knowing that I was my own killer.