She shivered sitting there in the musky dark corner of the
room. Her nightgown was all she had on. Huddled up as if to
take as little place as possible. With her face on her
knees, she wept. Her hair covered her face. It was long and
wet. Whether the incessant flow of tears or the pouring rain
made it wet, remains unknown. The color of it is lost within
the shadows. Her face is hidden and unseen. Her bare feet
tremble at the slightest sound. They have slight bruises, as
if she scarcely wore shoes. Hands envelop her head. They
seem not hers. Thin and white, they act as protectors of her
mind from the world. She could have been mistakenly taken
for a statue, if not for the constant sobbing and the
shaking shoulders. Her back bent under an invisible burden,
she is crouched there in her world.
The TV is heard from the other room. Its lights flicker on
the wall near her. Someone laughs. She shivers again. A loud
sob escapes. She fears that he has heard it. Nothing. Just
laughter comes through the door.
Time passes. The show is over. She no longer cries. She
hurts.
The TV lights stop flickering. Sounds of someone getting up
enter her mind. She flinches. Huddles even more. She is not
there anymore.
He enters the room and goes outside. He leaves.
She lifts her head. A final sob escapes. She waits.
A car door opens. Someone grunts and gets in. the door
closes and the car starts. Coughing sounds come to her ears.
Someone curses. The car finally drives off.

She stands up. Staggering she lifts her head. Her hands move
the hair from her face. She gets hold of the end of her
nightgown and wipes her face.
She is gone. The light of life is no longer to be seen in
her eyes. They no longer glitter as they once did. A shadow
is left. Shadow of life. Looking in those eyes you no longer
see life. No more youth. No more love. No more... No
more...

She looks out of the window at the moon. It's full. It is
low and radiates a strange light. It's yellow. The moon is
huge. She has never seen the moon so large. So beautiful...
No more...
She sheds one more tear but is quick to clear it away with
her hand. Her fingers come under the moon's rays. The once
long nails are no longer long. They are broken. The fingers
are stained with something. She knows not what. It doesn't
matter.
She turns and starts mounting the stairs. She staggers again
and grips the rail for support. Finally she's there. She
throws her nightgown off. She hurries to the bathroom. The
water is on. She gets under the flow. The water is cold.
It's piercingly old. She shivers and turns the lever. The
hot water begins to flow. She continues to turn the lever
and make the water hotter and hotter. It begins to burn...
to sting her skin. She lets go of the lever and gets under
the burning water. She scrubs herself. Her hand tire and she
lets go of the bar of soap. She gets down to her knees. She
cries. Her tears sting her flesh even through the burning
water.

No one helped her. No one. She was alone. Looking for help
was to no avail. To no purpose she looked for it where she
was used to find it. Nothing. Nothing.

Her tears stop. She turns off the water. She takes a towel
and wipes herself dry. Getting out of the bathroom, she
stops cold when she notices her body in the mirror. Her
flesh is lowing red. Her belly bears a recent - too recent -
scar. She passes her finger on it. And flinches.
She notices the nightgown on the floor. Its dark red stains
burn an image of pain in her memory.
The moon again. It reflects from something on her. She looks
down and sees a thin band of blood running down her thigh.
She wipes it off with the nightgown.

Her room. She enters it and searches for something to wear.
She puts on a pair of panties. A bra is put on her hurting
heart. A pair of pants is put on without trouble. An old
shirt finds her way on her and stays there. She stands
against the mirror. Takes a hairbrush and start combing her
hair. Her mind is attentive. Her strokes are slow. She does
it with care, meticulously.
She stops. Puts her brush on the table again and picks up a
deodorant. She sprays a bit on herself and then puts it
back.
She feels a thin streak of blood oozing down her leg again.
She staggers and grabs the table to steady herself.
She turns to the door and opens it. She moves as if in a
dream.
She descends the stairs. She turns left. Enters the
kitchen.

A car drives up the driveway. It stops to let a man out. A
giant figure exits and closes the door behind itself. The
man coughs and lights up a cigarette. He slowly starts
towards the house. The door isn't closed. He opens it.
Something sharp touches his flesh. The next minute nothing
touches it. There is no one to feel its touch.


A little boy of three comes out of the driveway of his
house. He has a spectacle to see. He's never seen it before
- hundreds of flickering lights, deafening sounds, a
constant flow of people. He sees a big car, a white one,
with red stripes. He remembers that it's called an
ambulance, his father taught him that the last time they saw
one speeding down the freeway. Now he sees something else -
a kind of little bed, with people pushing it, shouting,
screaming, and on it a black plastic bag. The little bed
with the long legs gets into the ambulance, which drives
off. The shouts continue. Nothing seemed to change. Only the
loud yelping of the ambulance makes the difference. Again
yelling. Another little bed comes out of the house. Another
black plastic bag.