Nevaeh smelled like strawberries and her hair grew the same golden color as dusty sunlight in the morning when it feels like you’re the only person on the planet. She radiated the warmth that came from the first mug of hot cocoa in the winter, smiled like shared secrets, and laughed a symphonic chorus rivaling the most beautiful bird calls.

Some folks at the diner said when she ate pancakes, bending down to bring the syrupy goodness to her supple mouth, they saw the outline of a halo around her head. Even her name meant heaven, simply spelled backwards.

Backwards, like me.

“Learn to love thyself,” they said. But I represented everything Nevaeh didn’t. No matter how often I showered or which products I used, I always smelled like a bad cookout: burnt and bitter. My hair grew in thin, knotted strands. People recoiled from any face I made, joyous or otherwise, and my laugh sent the birds scattering.

If I could only have one fragment of Nevaeh’s qualities, perhaps then I wouldn’t be so miserable. I’d make a single friend, or my parents wouldn’t beat me. Maybe if my hair didn’t always cover my eyes, or my throat didn’t have lumps, or my flesh didn’t fold on itself in some places and stick to my bones in others, then… Then I might just enjoy a sliver of this hellish nightmare called life.

I thought that if I stole a lock of her hair and wore it in a pendant I could siphon some of her warmth. I asked once in stuttering croaks and she, in her infinite kindness, happily obliged. It formed a wreath of gleaming beauty that made the metallic locket seem tarnished, but I was sure its mere presence upon me would change my life.

As it turned out, people began to listen to what I had to say. I could order a sandwich at the diner without having to write it down on a piece of paper and leave it while turned away. When I moved my hair behind my ears it stayed there. My bruises were given time to heal, my scent shifted towards fresher woods, and I could laugh without sending the birds fleeing.

But even with all the joys of my new life, I knew it wasn’t me these things were reacting to. It was Nevaeh. I had merely become a courier of heaven, a fraudulent angel skipping along scorched earth pretending not to notice the inferno.

I needed to destroy the locket, and I did so with burgeoning confidence. I might not have a golden mane or a melodic voice or the warmth of a wood fire on Christmas, but I could still burn. I could be charcoal and fire incarnate, and to love myself I fanned the flames.

If I couldn’t become Nevaeh, she would become me. My embers were more than enough to turn her to ash, and the charred heaven smelled like anything but strawberries.