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good. It's my fault my parents went to jail because I didn't help. Its my fault somehow that they killed her parents. Maybe if they hadn't had me, it wouldn't have happened. They would have gone their separate ways and the little girl would have grown into a beautiful woman.

Her reflection is hidden behind mine in the mirror. I know it. When I turn to try and see her, she moves entirely too fast.

I remember the sound the saw made against her skin. I remember the blood coming out and I remember my daddy's eyes. He sawed and he sawed, and her sawed. He wiped the sweat from his brow. He had put his Bible down where it would remain safe. She was dead put her creepy eyes kept looking at me. Then daddy grabbed her hair that used to be blonde. I think it was blonde before, but it wasn't anymore. He pulled and pulled and then her head popped off. It didn't look as easy as it was with my dolls, but it made a prettier sound. It was crunchy like giant rice crispies in milk.

Then Carrie Anne came over. She had her hair in a pony tail and she was wearing a yellow terry cloth halter. She fell then she was dead. Daddy shot her in the head. Her eyes were gone, she was dead. Then she was shot twice in once in each breast. She was dead for the fifth time. Daddy must have thought she was Jesus and she could rise from the dead because she was dead after the first time he shot her. The fifth time was the charmer. The dreams about Carrie Anne weren't so bad. I never thought Carrie Anne deserved to die. I never thought that Carrie Anne's head could be put back on to make everything Ok. Carrie Anne was unfortunate. The little girl was given to my parent's by God, so she made me hate God.

Then mama came in and I fell and landed in that girl's blood. That's why she haunts me. I fell in her blood and part of her soul rubbed off on me. She is with me forever. She follows me like the stain on my tooth forever. She reminds me this is what awaits you. This is who you are. You are just like them. You are them. I think that maybe if I had gone to the bathroom to throw up, I would have forgotten the last day mama baked cookies for me.

Learn more about this author, Erika Steele.
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