I would have been a beautiful woman by now. But when a body turns to dust before its time—when the mold is broken early—the spirit, like a casting, takes the mold’s last form. Though my awareness has grown—in ways it would not have, had it still been bound by mortal flesh—I retain the likeness by which I was last known: a girl of six years.
Yes, though few who have seen me would know it, I have grown. I have learned.
My soul has not passed over because I have not yet let it. I have learned to become patient. Patience is a virtue, and I know I will taste the reward of its fulfillment. I am patiently awaiting my passing over, but I must have one thing before I am swept away by Elijah’s fiery chariots.
I must have vengeance.
I feel that the time for vengeance is soon—though time is different for me now, as I am a soul unclothed, and not bound by time in the way that I once was.
The house I roam can feel vengeance’s nearness, too. These dark rooms grow colder—colder even than winter’s breath that frosts the windows.
I walk to one of these and look out at the white hills. I love these hills, especially in winter.
The wind outside moans through the trees, telling me that my time is coming. It warns me to be careful, that vengeance is cold, too, and empty. But how can anyone trust the wind? Nobody knows where it comes from, or where it goes.
Vengeance will be mine.