You blink again at the mirror, just to make sure. The thin red line under your left collarbone is still there, stark against pallid skin. You pick under it gingerly. The set of white, sharper-than-human teeth? Still there, too. 

 

This is all very stressful, but it's four in the morning and you can't remember the last time you slept, and really, this might as well happen at this point-- so you pull your hoodie up to your chin, and get back in bed.

 

You start paying attention when it starts talking. It whispers soft echoes: of miles of blue sky; of milk, warm in your hands; of pink overalls covered in grass stains, the sharp tang of oranges plucked off the highest branch of a tree; unabashed hunger and boundless glee. 

 

What changed?

 

You try to smother it with your hand, but the voice comes through between your fingers. What did you lose to earn these late nights and tired eyes, empty stomachs and overfilled sinks, bitter pills and torn skin? 

 

Where did the colors go? You used to see them everywhere. 

 

Stop talking, you cry. It does for a moment. But then it starts again, this time promises slipping through its wet fangs. It talks about the soft, simmering sound of a kettle; the morning sunlight filtering through thick leaves; the rustle of a good book, your feet against soft grass. You will be happy. One day, you will be happy.

 

Outside, the first light of dawn carves its way through the clouds, splitting through your blinds in a beautiful blaze of indigo.