I press cold fingertips to the glass, watching your gaunt eyes stare through me. They're green, like mine, but they're duller and colder. Your skin is paper white, stretched across your bones as if they were pulling it to them and hanging onto every fiber. You touch the glass with me, your hair hanging in tangled masses of earthy browns. Your nails are dirtied and chipped, yellows and sickly greens tainting the tips. Your clothes hang off of your victim's body as if they're too tired to do their job. Not a word is spoken, but thousands are shared. You're my darkness, Katelyn.