Susan Myers, Room 211

She placed her hands on my face and stroked

my skin like I was a porcelain doll. Her hands

moved to my hair, running each strand through

her crooked fingers like she was spinning thread.

So beautiful.

Her eyes were sunken deep into her skull, clouds

floated in front of her blue irises. I could tell they

had once been stunning like a clear river or the sky

in February. They darted from my chin, to my cheeks,

then to my nose, and finally rested on my eyes.

Don’t let me die. I’m so talented. I paint landscapes.

Thin lips were agape as she waited for words to

emerge from mine. Her hands were grasped

around my wrists like she was trying to drink in my

own youth, as if it was something I could give away.

My family loves me. They’re coming to see me next week.

Her hands shook violently and her skin sagged from

her bones. Deep wrinkles etched into every part of her

body. Some invisible force that had once held her together

was now gone, and she was unraveling.

Don’t let me die.

All I could muster was that I wouldn’t,

as if God himself afforded me the authority to do so.

She was carried out in a body bag three days later.

-Rachel Carney is a junior from Mooresville, NC, pursuing a major in Exercise and Sports Science and a minor in Creative Writing.-