looking at her in that casket, pure and white like snow with little pink roses painted along the trim, all I could think was, that's not her. She didn't look so waxy. That was someone else. A poorly made wax figure, all sunken and slouched. She looked like she'd aged so much. That wasn't her. It couldn't be. I wanted to reach out and tear all the skin off of her because maybe the real her was hiding underneath this phony. I wanted to rip her apart into as many blood chunks as I could muster. I wanted to snap her brittle bones as if to punish her for looking like someone else. I wanted to kill her for a second time. I wanted her to die again as if somehow that would cancel out like like multiplying by a negative number. It was so much of a struggle not to simply take her by the throat and start flaying her skin.
