She is empty, like the night. Deep and cold and sullen. There is a lingering smell of smoke in the room - always the smell of smoke, it lives in the cushions, curtains, clothes. She is melancholy. Her hands wring and her brow furrows and she dives deep into the lost, dark spaces. She feels cold fingers, hears sharp rebukes - wonders at them. She turns them in her mind and turns the bedclothes round and round. She is never at rest. She can never rest. Not now. Not ever. There are some mistakes that fade with time. Some fester, sitting inside you like a fanciful tyrant, reminding you how small you really are. Beneath her contempt, wrapped in closet-blackness, she holds her trump card, turning it slowly, wondering if she could find him. And, if she could, well ...
... so many possibilities.
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