Today s the day of my funeral. I see my parents standing by my closed casket, while the minister drones on and on about how I ll be missed. My moms weeping, broken sobs, and repeating my name, Frida! So young, so young. . And my dad is trying to calm her, but I can see tears in his eyes, too. Part of me feels bad to make them cry, but another part is glad that I m no longer a danger to them. I m surprised to find a warm tear trickling down my now cold and pale face. I hastily wipe it away, frustrated.

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