Where is it? He asked a second time, angry at his own reaction, wiping the blood-stained fist on his pants, walking backward as though he saw something in my smile and eyes that screamed “retreat”, and he did until I was alone with my thoughts.
The women in my family are connected by a thread of secrets. We know two things that follow us to the grave; The first one is our names, and the second, is what we make of it.
We were born shape-shifters, powerful enough to twist, bend, and become what was needed but never with our permission, never seeing our own reflection.
When my grandmother was dying, in her last form, she promised to take my skin with her. “Choose!”, she urged me, “whoever you become now, whatever you become now is what you will always be. You will be seen, your voice will be heard and they can never take your will.” I chose, she died.
And for the first time when I looked in the mirror, someone was there. Staring back at me, just as afraid with blood-stained lips but just as free.
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