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She hasn’t recognized “her” face in so long. Every time she looks in the mirror she’s grossly reminded of every putrid thing that has ever happened to her. Her numb fingers trace over her oxygen deprived skin as if trying to memorize every detail of her textured flesh. Lately “she” has been floating amidst the surface. It doesn’t take a lot to push her back down but she certainly doesn’t stay buried. “She’s” always so miserable and Widowmaker is tired of hearing about it. All “she” does is bask in her woe and her misery but it’s all she has left. No longer does “she” have control of anything except her numbness and her sadness. However, small and typically unpredictable things set “her” off. A faint scent, a set of numbers, the shade of someone’s favorite color- but whose? Distant voices of old friends and dead friends; puzzles pieces that never quite fit together. Gazing back into the mirror, Widowmaker takes another look at herself. Almost all at once her features returned to how they once were. Her lips were a soft shade of pink and her cheeks were rosy with color against her pale complexion. The assassin slowly closed her eyes before reopening them. Taking a deep breath she looked away from the mirror despite still being able to recognize Amelie in the cold reflection. As always, "she" looked forlorn. “Amelie...” A familiar yet hoarse voice croaks. Widowmaker does not respond, “Please look at me...”Widowmaker paused before looking back into the mirror. It was the reflection of a face she had always known. She looked away again. That wasn’t her. That was another life.“Amelie!” The assassin’s grip on the sink in front of her tightens as “she” remembers such a recognizable yet unknown voice, “I did love you, you know. You never believed me but I did. I did so much. Even when you married Gerard I still loved you, Amelie.”“Ç'est assez.” Widowmaker hissed into the sink. Her head space felt small and as though it was filled with pins and wires. The woman bites her lip hard enough to bleed. Droplets of crimson cascaded down her bottom lip, dripping slowly from her chin and into the sink, staining the pure white porcelain. Her eyes began to flutter shut as another memory resurfaced. However, this time much more vivid. Her surroundings suggest a modest apartment. Somehow she knows of the exact address without thinking of it. Where exactly is Amelie supposed to be? Widowmaker’s thoughts are disrupted once she catches something in the corner of her eye. She turns to the bed and stands there motionless.She remembers she killed Gerard while he was lying on his back. She remembers “she” couldn’t stand seeing his sleeping expression so “she” placed a pillow over his face before Widowmaker shot Gerard several times in the chest and face. Widowmaker had returned to the scene of the crime and remembered she died with her eyes open.“Focus.” Amelie’s voice whispers, ricocheting through her skull. It sounds more like begging than a command but the assassin continues to stay silent. Widowmaker takes another look around the room. It takes some time but piece by piece she can has a vague recollection of many items in the small room. Moving towards the wooden desk Widowmaker takes a brief look over it. A red little notebook catches her eye. Picking it up, the woman began to skim through the dreadful handwriting of both English and poor grammatical French. Just by glancing at a few pages she knew it was a diary. Her brows furrowed slightly when she recognized a poem deep within the pages.Widowmaker’s eyes snapped open suddenly as she looked once more into the mirror. No longer was she sucked in a memory that belonged to “her.” It was herself. It was The Widowmaker she had come to recognize and call herself. She was one of Talon’s best assassin’s and always secured the kill with a single shot. She never failed her solo missions and always hit her mark be it living or not.But she remembered. The Widowmaker remember who you were and everything about you. She knew your favorite color, she knew your favorite scent of perfume, she knew you still resided in the exact apartment she had recommended to you all those years ago when you had your visa in France. Gerard was dead but she still had you even if you weren’t in her web any longer; you soon would be.