Terror Tales #15

To begin, I say: being the heroine of my story doesn't mean you have to love me, even if the person telling you my tale wants you to. Right now, as I search for a sentence to begin my story, my mind, which I no longer control, is scattered against my will. It lies alone inside its dwelling, surrounded by garbage bags. For the first time, my Greek nose, which can no longer breathe from their putrid stench, doesn't recoil. My almond-shaped eyes, which have lost their sparkle, show no reaction to the lines on my palm, smeared, I believe, with the henna of my wrist's blood, nor to the dirt on my delicate hand protruding from one of the blue bags. It seems whoever put it there didn't seal it properly. Tell him that neglect kills everything beautiful.Those who know me can't describe me as neglectful. I always calculated every step I took; my calculations were never wrong, I thought. I realized too late that the only one whose calculations are never wrong is God.