Sometimes, at night, the woman lies on her creaky metal bed and wonders. Is the ceiling far too high or is it her vision getting weak?

She wonders if the blotches of deep grey mould splattered on the walls make a pattern, unprovoked, spontaneous like a madman's art. She wonders if she knows a madman - if she ever knew a madman. She wonders if she's the madman and then, what's her art made of?

She slowly leaves the bed and wanders around the house, back and forth through dusty hallways. Eyes are staring at her from behind glass, trapped inside their frames, and they're greedy. Heavens, are they greedy. They poke, the tickle, they burn under her warm cotton nightgown until she can no longer take it.

She smashes them to pieces.

Such youthful eyes they were. Such loving, ambitious, cocky eyes, restless her mind is restless eyes loving whispering – let's die together – let's

let's

not.

The woman is tired. And so she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand that smells like cats and fried chicken and now tears – their odourless scent overpowering the rest -and she steps on the pieces of her past, dragging her bleeding feet back to the creaky metal bed.

She looks at the ceiling. Her vision is finally getting weak.

And then, there, she no longer wonders. The woman sleeps, serene.