She breathed, alone.
She lived, alone.
She died, alone.
But dying didn’t come quickly, it did not come easily.
What had been the name of her family? She did not quite remember.
But she remembered when the last of them had left. When he had gone from being quick, and fast, and full of energy to when he began to slow and dull and fade… and when he was finally still. And later, when he was bloated and rank. But she still held him within her. She kept him safe. But she could do nothing when the strangers came. When they had finally carried him away in a bag. When others came and took away the bits and pieces of himself that he’d collected within her over the years.
His smell had lingered for a bit, until a ball hurtled through one of her windows. And when another broke, later. But she still imagined she could still smell the traces of him. Traces in the carpet and tattered couch.
Someone had driven nails into her, covering the holes in her wounded flesh with wood and plastic.
She was barely aware anymore. Didn’t think any more of the rot creeping in her bones. Of the kids and druggies and vermin that crept inside her although she did her best to keep them out.
The last had left a fire in her, candles lit on the chandelier while they partied and laughed. Then they had left her. Alone, with the fire. The fire which reached up, touching and exploring her heart.
But still, for now, she breathed.
Nightmare Fuel, Day 4