An excerpt from my current work in progress:
Standing before the mirror, she gazes into her reflection. Pale skin. Small prickles of hair emerging from her head. There’s a large oval -shaped scar on her neck. She focuses on her eyes–windows to the soul. Staring into them is like falling into a dark bottomless pit. She sees stains of guilt within them. She sees a mind like a grotesque dungeon, a place where thoughts wander blindly like prisoners, wailing at walls of misgiving and despair.
“Who am I?” she asks.
She gets the same answer as always. It comes to her as a hissing whisper in the back of her mind: not Meredith. Meredith is dead…
A Writer's Journey 