When I was seven years old, I watched my aunt die.

No, it was more than that—I felt her leave this world.

Our hands connected—something so simple—yet instantly, I was no longer me...

A staccato beep followed by a faint gasp created a haunting tempo. The overpowering fragrance of disinfectant lingered in the air. And when my eyelashes parted, a strenuous feat, the room blurred before it came back into focus. White paper-thin fabric rose and fell gradually, igniting a fire within my chest with every inhalation. And bright rays, blindingly so, remained trapped behind closed blinds. Intense beams crept through slits to rest in horizontal lines across my white sheets while tears burned the edges of my sight.

Just let me see the sun, came the silent beg. A tear seeped from the corner of my eye before another followed its path, my chin wobbling around that invasive tube that paralyzed my vocal cords.

And across the room, a television remained suspended in the corner, its reflection... mirroring someone I didn't recognize. Her brown skin was dull, faded of any warmth, stretched over bone. Her head, full of countless little patches, patches where long black hair had thinned to limp strands, strands that exposed more than it covered. She— I was so thin.

And everything just felt so heavy, even the power to keep my eyelids open was weakening.

Yet, I needed to see— I needed to see her one last time.

I couldn't turn my head; the rise and fall of my chest was difficult enough. But through the corner of my eye, I could see my Natasha. Her wild curls tousled, her small legs tucked under her pink tutu, her chubby face resting on my husband's arm. The room was fading, the weight upon me was growing heavier, and still with my last ounce of strength I reached out for them. My hand extended until I could see them no more.

A white film covered the room, and I gasped, choked on the very air that my lungs craved. Then, there was nothing...

Our hands disconnected—

And I became the monstrous little girl who predicted it all.

I don't know if anyone will ever read this but still... I have rewritten this beginning four times Yes, four times lol. I just keep thinking that what I want to convey can be better, that I can do better. So, I keep obsessively writing it (like I do everything in school), and I can never go beyond my first chapters. I can never figure out the ending because I'm so stuck on the beginning.

Have you ever written an essay multiple times only to start all over again? In school, I have a deadline to eventually stop me, but here...

I have a problem lol Thus, I need to treat this like a true draft and focus on finishing. Enjoy my draft!