Life sucks. It all comes down to me and a bunch of creepy blackbirds sitting on a dead-white tree that's starting to bleed. And the birds have glowing eyes. Piercing eyes, like little stars, except people associate stars with pretty, shiny things, which is nothing like the way their eyes are.

Somebody needs to come cut it down. Chop it up with a big axe, like the hunter chopped up the wolf in some fairy tale. Chopped it up and left its bones. And that's about all that's left of me—my bones. Locked up here, in this tomb, all wormed up and gnawed into. And where am I? Somewhere else. Somewhere nobody cares about. Because that's what happens to people that nobody knows exists. That's what happens when your parents, your teachers, your friends, your whoever actually murder you because to them, you're invisible. They don't know I'm dead, in most practical senses of the word. And if they did know, I doubt they'd care.

But I'm still stuck with those blackbirds, sitting, perched, against the blacker sky. They disturb me more than my family ever did. More than Evan did. Even more than Ada did.

Stupid birds.