Chapter 17 - Death will come.

Six months later:

As I sat, leaning against the cold hard wall with my moth-eaten blanket wrapped around me and my bottom now numb from how long I’d spent sitting on the hard floor and bits of loose stone and rubble poking into my thighs. I just stared emotionless at my fingernails, just calmly noting how brittle and dirty they were now. They were all chipped with engrained lines and patches of muck and old dust along my fingertips and on the palms of my hands. Every few days, a maid was sent in to bathe me. I never had the energy or the care to do it myself. I had lost all incentive. But even when the maids washed me and combed my hair, within a day I’d be back to looking like a poor and starved crazy woman. My hair, which was once long, silky and golden sleek, was now always matted, smelt like old rust and looked more of a dowdy old brown. My skin was paler with flecks of a faint purple, apart from the dirt that covered me, of course. My feet were the worst though. When I first came