Decaying Mind
The house was dark save the street lights, who’s florescent orange filtered through the newspapered windows. Boxes were stacked on counters, and a thin layer of grime coated each surface of the small kitchen.
Draws splayed wide, revealing loose batteries, cutlery, tangled string. Clothes spilled out of bin bags and somewhere, a displaced clock ticked dutifully on.
Upstairs, newspapers and unwashed laundry lived in the halls, each room as full as the last. At the end of the hall a bare bulb flickered.
Amongst stacks of miscellaneous papers and dirty dishes lay a woman. She was cold under her blanket, but did not move. The stillness of the house seemed to have seeped into her bones and she lay motionless, listening to the wind pushing it’s self against the bare glass. Her face was full of deep set lines, carved by Time himself. Skin mapping out the years of survival.
The house smelt of decay. Of decades of rot and isolation.
The woman stank of death.
