I used to always look at my feet. I wasn't the type of girl that spent her Saturdays at the salon getting manicures and pedicures. My toenails were chipped, the ones on the big toes ingrown, puss sometimes leaking out. I had a flat feet and fat legs, odd bones sticking out near my ankle. What the hell was wrong with my feet.

I was now laying on my bed, my back against the covers. My feet were suspended in the air, my arms pushing them forward at the back of my thighs. I was inspecting my feet again. They were clean, soft and moisturized, but still not normal. They were flat and my nails never listened to my mind. They kept growing in, until every time someone stepped on my toe, it was hard not to let out a scream. It has now been a year since my brother died. I missed him. I missed him a lot. I missed the way he was always over-protective of me, scaring the kids that scared me. I missed seeing his tan skin, and his bleached white smile of straight teeth. He never needed braces either. He was perfect.

I let my legs fall back onto the bed. They bounced back up from the force of hitting the mattress. Quickly, I moved into a sitting position, tucking my feet under my bottom. I looked around the room, as if seeing everything with new eyes. My feet touched the oak hardwood floors, my toes going numb from the blast of cold. Slowly and deliberately I walked towards the closet, grabbing my completely black skater dress and a matching pair of thin black tights. Complimented with wrist-high gloves I had the perfect mourning outfit. I bent down to zip up knee-high raven boots, then walked out, my heels clicking on the wood floors.

I made breakfast in silence, but didn't eat for my stomach couldn't handle the attempt of festivity; bacon; eggs; french toast. The large dining room table was empty except for me sitting at one of the ends, prodding the dark red roses with gentle fingers. They were sweet and gentle flowers, so intricately grown; but there was a dark beauty to them. Armed with sharp points and vibrant pigments of black, dark red and such, they were deceiving to the eye. I chose them for my brother, the one who died; he was a pretty picture, but under all the skin and bone he was a devil to anyone who wasn't expecting it.

As I was walking to the little cemetery at the end of our street, I wiped a tear from underneath my eye. Three hundred and sixty five days later, but I still felt like crying at the thought of his death.