She lies on her back on the floor in the corner, looking generally at the ceiling and specifically at the black crack born of the angle where the wall meets the cupboard, growing outwards; from whence stringy cobwebs have sprung.
The early morning sunlight filters in through the red cotton curtains, spreading a burgundy light across the cluttered shoebox sized room.
She shifts, numbing, and the crack disappears. She listens to the tick of her watch, amplified so clearly, when she presses her ear to the cold wood of the cupboard, an apricot sheen in the early morning light.
The carpet, grey with age, frays beneath her wandering fingers. Rough denim grates against her knees when she twitches in the cold; bird song of the forest raven and the mistletoe-bird background noise to the toaster in the kitchen: silver box popping up hot, crunchy bread.
Scarlet radiance from the sun dances though the cracks of curtain fabric, blending with her skin, hiding and revealing her freckles in time with