Her duster gently admonishes the dust that lingers amidst the photographs on the sideboard. She knows she need not bother, who’d care?
Sometimes she’s tempted to let the dust just build up till she drowns within a sea of grime.
Pausing for a moment she reflects on the frozen wraiths that stare mutely back at her. She had been young once, a red lipped femme fatale. Now these monochrome spectres just remind her of the cruelty of recollection, of her prison forged by treacherous flesh.
The girl who would dance the night away, reduced to making dust twirl in sunlight.