My Sister in Christ

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All I can remember now is what they wouldn’t show. Deathly silence, the awful pregnant pause (is she?) followed by wood and human flesh. In that instant, I knew I would never stop loving her, protecting her children until it was my turn at bat — my other half, my immortal enemy.

In the waking hours, I’ve died in monumental increments: toddler in a cliffhanger, Asian flu twice — at eight, in high school, somewhere before I met and made a living Automaton with my mind, the virtual split with David, 2012. My dreams, the only link to where I am now, I am not here, amongst these strangers, with this fictitious name and this disturbed face.

She’s dying or betrayed by the help that once sustained her mirror image on Facebook and Instagram. Half-villain, half-hero, a vibrant reminder of my vivid imagination, or a warning.

I can’t talk to you, because you’ve died too.

 

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