Desperately attempting to silently traverse the oppressive darkness living within the hall, Jane’s thoughts absently drift to the man she once knew. Did she love him still? Did she ever truly love him? She remembers the dark tortured look perpetually etched into his cold face. His eyes always search for the right thing to say, the right emotion to portray, but the pain of love, hate, and life seeps through tainting everything. Jane feels the shivering wall just beneath her finger tips, using the surface to guide her down cavernous abyss or mortar and plaster. Soft, rotted wood and plastic force her fingers to skirt around the frames of pictures marking the past, moments frozen forever. Ghosts contained in glass and glue, looming from the walls of familiar places. Did one of these pictures contain a bit of him? Did her fingers touch the glass imprisoning a small part of him? Her warm flesh softly caresses the fragment of soul that live forever mounted on the wall like a trophy. The light ahead brings her back from her reverie. He left her behind a long time ago. The days and months since flew by, leaving her to wallow in her home. But the smell in her nose lingers, the touch on her skin still tickles, and his words reverberate in her mind still. A half smile touches her lips and the muscles strain at the awkward action. Where is he now? Is he happy? Is he sad? Jane wonders if she could help him, but sulks onward through existence, never questioning what if, only lamenting: What next?
As inspired by this deviation by Scott James Prebble to be exact.
I hope it will suffice.
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