“Every murder is the end of a story, yet so many tales take it as their start,” she whispered to her reflection, the mirror broken and pale, like her.

She was thrown and beaten and dragged like a ragged, dirty cloth. He had smiled, knowing it was only a moment before the sharpened dagger would strike her, tear her flesh and stab one of the most vital organs of her body. He plunged the dagger, twisted it, and killed her.

The summer light kissed the lifeless body. ‘But don’t worry, she came back, she thought, and smiled at her reflection.

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