Delilah || Part 2 We went to the police about Rose, but they didn't take us seriously. They said it was suicide, that the knife was found in her own hand. But it was in her right hand. Rose was left handed, like me. We're both quite ambidextrous, at least Rose was and I am, but it was a swift cut, not like someone with their shaky, unused hand. I couldn't picture Rose wasting her last moments transferring the knife from one hand to another. It didn't make sense. Since Rose died, nothing did.

Delilah || Part 1 On that simple February morning, Rose woke early to a world of perfect snow. She grinned - another snowy birthday. She stumbled, still in the oversized t-shirt she slept in, to the door, pulled on boots and slipped outside. Running down the path to the empty field, she stopped by the huge, evergreen holly bush, watching her breath freeze into clouds of nothing. She threw her head back, fiery red hair tumbling down, her perfect white neck exposed to the world. As Rose gazed at the blotchy grey sky, a figure, dressed all in black, crept out from behind the holly. As the sun peeped out, it bathed the world in a peachy pink glow, lighting it up. But that same knife also lit up a silver knife, the same knife that slashed Rose's throat, that left her bleeding in the snow, now stained with blood. Rose was left to die. Rose was only thirteen years old. She was also my elder sister. That knife made me who I am today.