She stares at me, dark brown eyes twinkling maliciously, lips curved up into mocking smile. I don’t remember ever meeting her before but she seems angry, as if she has some sort of deep seated enmity with me.

“Hey,” I greet coolly, attempting to break the tense silence.

She smirks, but says nothing.

I start to feel irritated.

“What’s your problem?” I snap.

“You,” she answers haughtily, flipping her neatly brushed hair behind her shoulder.

I clench my fists and take a deep breath, exasperated and confused at this strangers arrogance.

“And what right do you have to hate me?!” I insist.

She rolls her eyes.

“Because I’m prettier than you, more intelligent than you and above all else, I am you.”

She turns around and begins to walk away, not giving me a chance to respond.

I start to chase after her, wanting an explanation, but then I see something stops me in my tracks.

There’s a round, white burn mark consuming the back of her tan wrist.

I stare down at the scar engulfing my own wrist, heart beating fast.

And that’s how I met my mortal enemy; myself.