First Thing in the Mourning
by Sine Qua Non
She tries sordidly to let go of the thought. She directs her attention to everything else.
Around her the stained tiles soak up the pale light, the specks of damp dirt stare back at her. But the thought, too strong, weighs her down and she falls. The cold wall breaks it, she rests her forehead there, the concrete kisses her cheek. A drop of water trickles from the shower head onto her bare back. There is a chill at the thought of absence, no arms outstretched, only the floor waits.
She writes with her claws on the fading white paint. In the end of things, here it begins: the story of her demise.