Sweet girl. All she knew was music and Muppet Babies. Her laugh was the song of innocence. A loving, well-mannered, and shy child. She was sick, and so she was doomed. No one could cure her misunderstood illness, and it swept her away. Kidnapped by disease of the mind. Rest in peace, she could not. I feel her crying all the time. Dreadful screams. I can almost see her red, tear streaked face.

I am sorry little girl. I am sorry Kristina. So sorry.

I am not the little girl in these pictures. I can't look at them, because they make me cry. She is not me. She is dead. Those are not my eyes, and that is not my smile. People say it is the same pair of eyes, and the same smile, but their vision is not as keen as mine.

When I look at recent photos of myself smiling, all I see is a girl lost within a thick fog of all things dark. She is some place where the only colors are different shades of gray, blue-gray, and black.
If she is crying too hard, they put her in a black room full of nothing, where she hides her face in her knees and weeps.

No, I do not see the girl who jokes and dances, like everyone else sees. I know when she laughs she is not sincere, but doing so because it seems to be what is supposed to be done. I see a stranger. In fact, I often get surprised when I look in the mirror and see the girl staring back at me. Who is she?

I get a creepy feeling looking at her. And then I feel my companion, the voice without a body, snarling at the girl. Perhaps I have died, and stolen this girl's body, and I just don't remember. I don't know what I look like, but I am not the girl in the picture, or the mirror. When I look at her, four year old Kristina is screaming. She wants the demon to let her go.
She wants to go back.

I want to go back.