She’s waking, and she’s walking out the door

She leaves the glimmer of the red-brick,

In 2009, the first.

In 2023, the last.

The blood is on her hands, and she can feel a white blanket envelop her.

It is the first sensation she has felt in years.

Mercurial and self-loathing are those tears.

No more release in them.

Only release in that.

In this prison cell are mirrors; they glare back at her with such a hideous, emaciated, mortifying
Look on her face.
What she hears seems to salivate,
She, a ****** mouth of a teeth-grinder. Sore.
Did they see her face as the telephone rang?

The woman clothed in sun weeps with fury at her, with a mask of complete, deadly, damning indifference. It is so, so sorry; waves of anguished apologies flooded its lungs as he strangled it. The blade is for you, my dear girl.

As they came together, they came apart.

A hand, gloved in red;something in the way.

It’s a knell for this lady in red, and, oh! How she has been waiting so!

The troops of glares and deafening silence she cannot bear as she races towards them; they stampede over her.

She does not battle.

She does not cry.

She does not raise a finger.

She simply lets the curtains fall.

Ophelia drowns.