Odette wrote in English, in girly loops, like me. I press the page closer to my face. I think Odette was writing backward, too. In seconds, I am holding the page up to the bathroom mirror. Odette’s loopy writing. My bright green eyes. Both of us trapped in the bathroom mirror, trying to communicate. The clank on the front porch this time is not my imagination. Neither are the words in the mirror, now transformed like magic: I do not want to die.
Hindsight: Why tf did she write this and when? It's not like the uncle told her he was going to kill her.
