I start where it begun. I stood, on a cold white bridge overlooking the sea. I let the wind pass through my hair, picking it up, then setting it down, gently, with wind force, although not wind strength. It ruffled my hair, the sibling-side, the gentle side. The wind was the sibling I didn't have, caring, holding and protecting me against the heat, the fear, the cruelty of the world in which I grew. It was cold, but who said cold could not be gentle? Who said that cold could not protect you?
I stand, the white of the bridge turning rust-red. The hair the wind blew sticks to my forehead, sticks with my blood. My pants are stained with my life, my strength. The wind blows leaves into the pool of my blood. I pick up the leaves, and blood stains my fingers. I wipe away my hair. It sticks to my fingers, and I pull it away, and the strands drop off my fingers. One by one. I walk away from my blood, feeling the wind engulf me. It blows my hair into my face, and I see blood-matted hair. Then it blows my hair away. I say goodbye. I stop where it finished.