It’s haunting. What you can remember, if you really choose to focus on what was, instead of only what wasn’t. It’s sickening to face the truth. To put it into words so that someone else can someday have the fortune, or dishonor, of secondhand living your tale. I suppose this is why it’s taking me a while to finish this book. And also why I throw a hissy fit everytime I have to sit down an write. It’s better; better writing and more honest in the least. But it’s like having a conversation with a dead girl- someone who barely breathed when she walked the Earth at the time of our setting. Your narrator seems a trifle like the walking undead; no longer living but in a state of refusal to decease. I suppose then, that she carried on in order to tell her story one day. That that day has arrived. And that I better toughen up and tell it.

Terica.