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she wakes.

 She wakes.        

She blinks.          

Once.        

Twice.     

There is no overhead fan to greet her.

Just a battered, scratched ceiling with a stain that could almost be her reflection.

She blinks.

The rays of light do not land on her. They crash through the window.

And die at the foot of the desk lamp that stays on the floor.

She stirs.

Her right arm stretches.

Weakly.

Towards the stain on the ceiling.

The hand closes.

She blinks.

It's late.

She's late.

She blinks.

There is no morning to greet her.

Just a stain.

There was darkness and then there was light.

And she wakes.


-©Estelle Wallis, September 2020

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