She feels old this morning.
It is not a new feeling. She often wakes feeling older than she has a right to – and it is not that her bones are aching or that her muscles are slow – but she feels as if all the years of man press on her in the few minutes of peace she feels should belong to her before she has to join the battle of the world.
Renee stood alone, staring blankly across the water, the bridge, the footpath. She didn’t know what to expect, something more, something timeless perhaps – some immortal image of herself as a child carved into the walls; her young self lifted into the air by her father. Her mind relived a never forgotten Ray Bradbury story, the tale of families whose only legacy was the shadow left behind by the nuclear flash that had destroyed their world.
In the dim room, Brigit sang. Dancing circles in her confinement, her fingers trailed along the walls, leaving graphite smudges on the faded yellow wallpaper, a ghostly image of the words her song left behind.