The shattered mirror, pieces pointing in different directions, each shard showing its own small portion of the ruined attic; one reflects—
the diary, bursting with dark and secret thoughts, diffusing through the room, permeating, page by page, word by word, because of—
the twisted ceiling fan, with blades bent or broken, blades that cut air not flesh unlike the other kind, turning on their eternal carousel, ever slicing through—
the shredded white dress and the tattered ghost sheets, with threads unraveling, threads that aren't strong enough to tie a knot that could end it all, white that may have once looked better in the moonlight sweet as honey, but now just white like blank space, a haunting emptiness, but if only if only the light were let in from—
the drawn curtains, the barrier between inside and out, the barrier between knowing that there were only songbirds and springtime and believing that there should be cyclones and tsunamis instead, curtains drawn, like a picture, pictures never move or change, curtains that let their fringes kiss—
the fading carpet, with patches torn up wherever fingernails found purchase, fading, creamy beige blemished with—
the spilled make-up, tarry mascara pooling into oil slicks, dark rouge scabbing, bloody lipstick engraving silent hateful words upon—
the battered walls, whose bruises and wounds, have been inflicted by anything that could be thrown, smashed, swung at the walls, the base of each wall strewn with the sources of the livid impact craters, black and blue, and black, and black, and in the center of the scarp of fallen things lies—
a woman, the most broken and wretched of anything in the room, the outcome of her own destruction, the madness and the method, the mirrored mind.
Author's Note: That's right, it's a 300 word (approx.) sentence fragment of Insangeline. You may at this time ask what on Earth is wrong with me.
This is only a snapshot of a fic that I, at one point, intended to write. A while ago, I had this fic almost two-thirds written, at least one-third of which I was proud of. But things happened, and I can't post any more of it than what you see above. Details in a forthcoming lj post (it'll be a friends-only post, because I am Paranoid, but I figure only you Onioners will be reading this sort of carp anyway).
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, though I'm sure Colfer wouldn't want to own any of AF either, if he were to see what we've done to his characters.