The tiny flames consuming the match
danced around her fingers. Her eyes flickered with the fading light
devouring, hungry, the deathly-ness of the play. Before the fire
drowned itself she took a sip of her beer. She carefully put down the
bottle, as it was pitch black now. The wind was harsh that night, a
fierce force fighting the worn out city. The rain was shy at the
time, tired after a long week of deluging. She grabbed one more match
and lighted it. This time she let it dispel faster.
Blind and quiet, she let the world in.
Four bells cried afar over the raging breeze.
I'm an old soul and I am tired. If
God were merciful, She would have taken me long ago. Oh, Almighty, I
pray to you now. I pray that you let my spirit rest. Listen to me,
old friend, I am an old soul and I am tired.
She took one last sip and threw the
bottle away from her bed. It fell silently on a pile of clothes. She
crawled under the quilt and made herself as small as her body
allowed. A single tear dared to adventure its way down her nose and
to the mattress.
She stifled a sob and hold on to
herself as hard as she could. Slumber took her under its wings before
the bells stroke 4:02.
