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She just stared at the cracked ceiling, recognizing the cracks within herself, widening, sharpening, lengthening.
Purposeless.
Endless.
Lifeless.
***
Dayspassed.
The ceiling stayed the same.
Months passed.
The ceiling got worse.
Time became meaningless.
The last sign of life in her body came when her box fell over, black roses scattering across the floor, sparking something.
She flew across the room in a rage and tore them apart, crushing the petals, bruising them until her eyes began to burn and her throat locked tight.
She wanted nothing of him. No reminders. Nothing of the man who had made her believe in an illusion of safety, only to push her into danger himself. He had betrayed her, time and time again, leaving her behind for the jackals to feed off her flesh.
Standing up, she went to the bathroom and grabbed a razor from the cabinet behind the mirror. Looking at herself, at her sunken eyes and her pallid reflection, at the hair he had been so fascinated with, she began to hack away at the long tresses she had never cut before. With each lock of hair that fell, she felt herself go, felt who she had been disappear as a silent doll took its place—good to use and play with, pretty to look at, but completely lifeless.
Cutting the last lock of her hair, she let him go, let herself go, let everything that connected them go.
The ceiling cracked.
***
