My hair is falling out in clumps as my skin slowly pales.

_Beat!_ I tell my heart.

_I’m trying_, it echoes, though it’s slow and skippy.

My bones feel like wooden sticks, ready to snap and break. I urge them to stay strong, but they shake in feebleness.

I close my eyes and try and breathe without much thought, but my lungs ache and burn.

_Live_, I beg my body, _live_. _I am not ready to die._

“Belle, why are you in your room again?” Mom asks, bringing in my laundry. “There is chicken parmesan on the stove.”

My stomach lurches at the thought of food. I try to hide my gag.

“I don’t feel good,” I whisper.

“Oh stop your nonsense, get up and go get some fresh air,” Mom responds, oblivious to my pain.

Reluctantly, I urge my body to stand as Mom leaves my room. Black dots sparkle in my vision before I get a hold of myself.

_This may be your last time feeling the sun_, my heart tells me.

_Cherish its warmth_, my soul adds.

I walk slowly to the green grass that glows in the golden sunshine. My body instantly warms and my skin attempts to gain color.

I lie down, flowers swaying beside me, warming my stone body. Maybe sunlight can revive me.

Closing my eyes, I feel the familiar thump of my heart slowly slow.

May death bring me peace.