A small whitish stain on my sky-blue cardigan. Mirrors lie. I looked again, pulling at its front and looking down. I smelled it. Cheese, made more nauseating mixed with the scent of fabric softener. It has been almost eight weeks. Sarah did not wash this sweater properly. She cannot, even if I ask her to. Soap and water cannot wash away the remnants of my past. That was the weekend her hackles went up. She knew, no longer just a knowing. A year before on that date, this life was innocent and unimaginable. The following Saturday she did not take any of my calls or reply to the messages. It was daft of me to expect her to. Looking back, it was inevitable. Everything, all of it, was inevitable. I still cannot not shake away the odours, the bouquet of the ashes. If you come near me, you can get a whiff of it too, the person I still am a bit, having murdered most of myself. The half-cadaver on my back is fragrant. Cheese. Fabric softener. I threw the sweater in the corner with the rest of the dirt. I hope this time it will get much more than a half-hearted once over.

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