The Bone Chilling Child

She sobs. She shakes. She shivers. Her wispy brown hair outspreads all around her like angel wings. Her long, faded night gown flutters around her feet like a cloud as she clutches her knees, burying her face in her palms. Weary tears cascade down her cheeks like a waterfall from her pearly, silvery eyes. The wind shakes the leaves, almost singing her a lullaby trying to sooth her.

She turns her face to the moon and wails.

Her neck is exposed, torn, ripped, and scarred.

 She clutches her throat with her icy hands, remembering the night where her life became...nothing. She weeps, mourning all of the years that she could’ve lived. She misses her warm, soft bed. The soothing sound of her mother’s voice and the reassuring light of the fire. “Mommy!” She sobs. “Come back!” The icy air stings her skin and the wind makes her shiver violently. She sadly glances down at her name which was carved into her ivory grave. “Mary Elizabeth Hills. Born in 1912 and died in 1919.”

She strokes the frozen petals of a rose which lies on the  soft soil of her grave. Along with her faded, stuffed bear which lies beneath her. Her bare feet hit the frosted ground and she rests her head on her knees as she sobs into the lonely, dead of night. Some refer to her as the bone chilling child. But really, she’s just cold, lonely.

And Dead.