I despise her. Yes, she triggered phobia in me. I envy her. She is young and innocent. She hasn’t suffered my agony. She dreams. Her hopes remain kindled. She is daunting and always ready to play the gamble. She trusts people and loves everyone. Her heart is warm and the smile is charming. She is everything I am not. The very imagery of her instills fear in me.
I dread her, curse. She has been the reason of my downfall. She shouldn’t be bothering me, now that she is dead and gone. Yes, I murdered her. I throttled her to death.
Yet sometimes guilt haunts me. I see her image in many young girls. The similar characteristics dreads me. Dear grasps me. It feels she will come back from the dead and change the world for me. This scares me beyond infinity.
I shudder in fear. Realisation dawns upon me. I realise, she can never ever come back. She is too weak to fight back. I creepily look at mirror as I see myself smiling back at me.
Yes, I fear my former self.