She sat, enshrouded in darkness. Not so much darkness, as nothing. However, a stale smell hung in the air, heavy upon one as if a fog was collecting upon the earth. Her upon table, the mind literally too heavy with burden to brighten and lift. Hands hung aimlessly at her sides, she slumped forward in her chair onto her desk. Unfocused eyes stared forward, viewing all yet seeing nothing. The weight of the world forced her down into submission of that which was not within her control.
Greasy, dinged blonde hair flowed in tangled lines over her back and shoulders, hanging in a strayed formation as does heaps of straw. Face, smudged by ink and blood, lay paled upon the desk. Body, weak and battered, relaxed into the stable hug of the chair and the hold of the writing desk. A misty odor filled the air, turning the stale smell into one of stuffy uncomfortable sensations. Sweat drenched clothes clung to her body, her T-shirt and fabric pants sticking to skin. An image of blood stained white, the white ensemble of clothing was alone in brightness in the light-less room.
No salvation came, nor rest, nor hope. Only darkness, foreboding premonitions haunted the woman. For in truth there is no knight in shining armor. There is no silver lining. When one falls, they often fall hard, and they sometimes do not recover. She has yet to recover. For the touch of light and warmth has not yet graced her.
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