I never used to be superstitious. Not until things started to deteriorate around me like a loose thread off an aging afghan.

Now I jump at shadows. I run at the sound of a fly buzzing in my ear. I scream when someone brushes past me in the rush downstairs to see who can get to the distribution center first.

They called me Skittery when I first came here. Because it was so easy to surprise me. I'm a daydreamer, and I like to fall into my dream worlds where peppermints grow on trees, unsullied coffee flows as abundant as rainwater, and tastes just as good, where I can smoke a cigarette an hour and not worry about my cough coming back.

Where you're still alive.

I remember when you first came here. You had this strange air of innocence around you, like a cloak, and it shone in your eyes as you slowly studied each of us, trying to put names to faces. When our eyes met, that first time, I knew you were special. You were tiny, with bright eyes, and a big smile, and, at first in my mind then later to your delight, I often called you 'Kitten'.

"My kitten." I'd say. "My sticky-fingered Snitch-kitten with honey on his paws." And then you'd laugh and giggle and kiss my cheek, leaving a clean mark on my oft-dirty face.

You were always superstitious. You never sold a single pape until you'd stolen at least one wallet or 50 cents worth of loot.

"Just to make sure." You'd tell me. "I don't want to have to go hungry. 'Sides, if I get more than 50 cents worth, I'll sell better."

And the strange thing was, that was true. Somehow, it seemed, people would flock to you as you sold. You couldn't read a word of what you were selling, but the smile on your face and the lilt in your voice drew them to you.

It might also have been your little-boy curls that you so despised, or the child's gleam in your eyes. It was almost as if you were simply a little boy who's body had grown too fast.

You always got along with the younger boys, like Boots and Les. They looked up to you, and when you would leave them to their marble games (you cared little for marbles; what you always wanted to play was chase or stickball), I could hear them talking:

"I want to be like Snitch when I'm older." Boots once said. "'Cause he understands."

Les nodded. "He never forgot what it's like to be a kid. Davey forgot. So did Sarah. But Snitch never did."

"I hope he never does." Boots said, then continued with the game.

And you never did.

You never got the chance.

I remember our first kiss.

You'd always go out of your way to avoid ladders and black cats. On the 13th day of every month, you wouldn't sell any papers and would only hang out at Tibby's, waiting for the day to end so you could work harder the next day to make up for it. On Friday the 13th, you wouldn't do anything. You'd pretend to be sick so Kloppman would let you stay at the Lodging House.

There was one time where I teased you mercilessly because of your refusal to go underneath a ladder we came across when selling. You shook your head and stomped your foot and averted your eyes to keep me from seeing the light fear inside them. But my teasing got to you eventually, and you walked under that ladder, and I applauded and told you "Well done, kitten!", which made you flush bright and grin shyly.

Then an unobservant mother poured a bucket of dirty wash water onto your head, and you stood on the sidewalk, your mouth open in shock, your eyes shut to protect them from dirt and soap. I ran to you, trying to keep from laughing out loud and when I took your hand you jerked it away and glared at me.

"I told you walking under ladders was bad luck!" you insisted, which only made the laughter boiling inside my throat whistle out of my mouth like a teakettle.

And eventually you smiled, then grinned, then laughed with me. Surprising both of us, you reached out and pulled me into a waterlogged hug, and when you kissed me that time, you tasted like soap, but that was okay. That was perfectly okay. It was like having my mouth washed clean by some kind of shimmering angel.

And it was wonderful.

I remember when Mush brought home the little black kitten Shortie had given him. It was one of the most adorable things I'd ever seen, batting at bootlaces and mewling at every piece of meat shaken at its head. Everyone was drawn to that cat, except you. When you first saw it, you immediately hoisted yourself onto your bunk and curled up, pretending to sleep. Everyone teased you, and Mush even named the kitten Twitch, in your honor.

"I ain't scared of cats." You'd protest quietly, ashamed. "Black cats, though… they're bad luck."

Mush frowned. "Shortie gave him to me. You better not say it's bad luck." He scowled, nuzzling the cat against his bronzed cheek. The kitten mewed at you, as if to say it was sorry for being black, but you just shuddered and told Mush to keep it away.

Later that night, some of us went downstairs for a card game before bed, but you stayed upstairs, along with Itey, Specs, and Boots.

Mush, in a playful mood, left his kitten in the doorway. I'm supposing it came upon you at one point, because there were suddenly loud noises from upstairs, and everyone started to laugh.

"Twitch found Snitch." Blink snickered.

Then you started to clamor down the stairs, and tripped. Rolling down the staircase, there was a stiff silence, everyone with their jaws down and eyes wide; Race's cigarette fell from his mouth and smoldered on the pair of aces he had dropped once you tripped.

"Snitch… you all right?" I asked hesitantly as you lay at the foot of the stair.

You lifted your head, sprung onto your feet and grinned meekly at us, your face both pale and flushed at the same moment. "Yeah… I'm all right."

Then everyone laughed, relief replacing tension, and you embraced me and played a new hand with us.

Then there was the day the mirror broke.

Seven years ago.

I was horsing around in the washroom, trying to get Jake to give me back my walking stick. You were sitting on a barrel, content to wash your feet with a dirty rag and watch my roughhousing with amusement.

Jake shoved me a little too roughly, and I fell backwards into your barrel, knocking you into one of the poles that supported a mirror. The jolt made the mirror drop to the ground and shatter.

You stared at the many pieces lying on the ground, and hundreds of pairs of your dark doe-eyes stared up at me within them.

"I broke the mirror." You whispered. "Seven years bad luck."

You sounded horrified.

But you didn't make it seven years.

You barely made it seven hours.

It's been seven years.

Seven years to the day.

I've decided that it was really me who broke the mirror. That's why Snitch died. That's why I've been forced to wander New York until today, wondering why I'm still alive, why my life has sucked so completely that I can't help but think that I'm a walking black hole.

That's why I broke this mirror.

That's why I'm lying here on my back on top of this building.

I'm 25 years old.

The year is 1907.

I've gone for seven years without setting eyes on the one person I've ever dared to love with everything I ever had to love with.

It's time to end this hell.

So I broke the mirror.

The glass shard over my wrist is smooth, like the many kisses along my neck and shoulders that I'd once received. The blood bubbling around the open lips of my self-inflicted wound reminds me of that final kiss. There's a feeling of floating, and I feel like I'm levitating above the ground. My eyes shut, but I can still see.

I never used to be superstitious. Not until, seven years ago, I broke a mirror and lost the love of my life.

Now, I've broken another one, and it seems like my superstitious ways have disappeared. This is good, so good, all good luck.

I can see Snitch now.

I can feel the warmth of his hand against my cheek.

Then I can see my body lying beneath me, and Snitch is standing beside me.

"Come on, Skitts. We'll be together now." He says, smiling brightly.

"My kitten." I whisper. "I've missed you."

We kiss.

And the feeling is everlasting, fleeting, dark, light, everything and nothing.

Who needs superstition, when you have love as deep as this?

***AUTHOR'S NOTE***

This is what comes from Lute getting a Keith Urban CD for Easter.

I like this story.

But it also seems like it might be confusing.

I dunno.

WHATEVER.

**goes back to doing her english homework**