A giggle tore itself from Sasha’s throat. Flaky snowflakes lazily drifted to the thick carpet of white around her.
“Thank you Santa” she whispered, her breath misting in front of her face.
Sasha hated to admit it but she had almost stopped believing. After all she was eleven years old.Her wish for a white Christmas had come true, something her daddy could never give her.
Then she noticed the old woman huddled in a threadbare blanket. Sasha immediately knew she was dead; nobody’s skin should be the shade of overripe blueberries.
“I’ve killed her.” Sasha murmured and began to shake.
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