Myths are blossoming,

Forget what you have ever been told about the after life. All that I am outrules those tales. I was murderd under the blossom tree, the tree with no sign of life. Now I am that tree, and I shall blossom once more...

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1. Felicity Rossi,

When we are killed our spirits pass on to the nearest item to us, such as the murder weapon, maby even the murderer. You could be the gun, using your bullets to kill as you were killed, the shooter, to shoot as you were shot. But of course I didnt know that yet. I was just the normal sixteen year old girl, if there is such a thing. I was going about my buisness as usual, watching mother scurry about our small cottage worring about something or other, cleaning up after me and my six other siblings. Four of which were playing in our small country garden, wishing that they could be running in Master. Sheperds large yard up the hill. There is suddenly a weak cry from one of our four rooms, the bedroom. After figuring out where it was coming from I lift Agathe, the youngest, out of her crib. Cradling her in my arms as I head to set the table. Or at least attempt to, as I now only had one free arm. My older brother, Hugh was travelling from London to visit us.

 

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