As clear as black and white

“This is all we found,” the police officer said. He open his crisp white gloved hand to reveal a crumpled black hair ribbon. I recognized the ribbon immediately.

“That's Lisa’s ribbon!" The one my father had given her before he died. The one she wore everywhere. This undeniable piece of evidence forced me to acknowledge the truth.

My sister was dead.

“I'm sorry," said the officer and held the ribbon towards me.

The folds of the twilight colored ribbon sat innocently in his pale gloved hand. The black satin was bold and dark against the bright, bright, white of the glove. The ribbon seemed to be saying I survived. At least I survived. Aren't you proud of me? But my sister hadn't survived. She was dead, dead like my father, like my mother. Dead, like anyone who had dared to come close to me, the cursed child. Death was black and ugly, like the ribbon. But the ribbon’s darkness was morbidly cheery compared to the dull white blankness of the hand where it sat.

I snatched the ribbon from the police officer’s hand and ran up the stairs to my bedroom, where I sat on my bed and cried for what felt like hours, the deep black ribbon clutched in my palm.

Black was an evil color. It seemed to appear everywhere. Black was the color people wore to mourn. There had been too much mourning in my short fifteen years. Black was the color of my eyes, eyes which showed how truly evil I was inside, although I looked human outside. Black revealed my true identity as the devil’s child. Black was this ribbon, which sat happily in my fist, not knowing it carried death and sadness and evil. White was known as pure, but the white glove knew what awful news it was bearing. It still hung in my mind, pale and gaunt. The white glove, the black ribbon. Black ribbon, white glove. Evil and pure, pure and evil. Which was which? I couldn't tell an

ymore.