Old age, regret, depression
The big bay window, cracked and grimy, looks out at a partially obscured view of dented garbage cans and urban detritus blowing along the dim and deserted street.
She strokes the black cat in her lap and rocks herself in the creaking chair.
At the shrill sound of the tea kettle the startled cat jumps into the wilted jungle of a tall plant. Wearily, she heaves her heavy body out of the stained and torn arm chair and shuffles towards the tiny kitchen. The sudden light scatters the roaches that scuttle back into dark corners.
A cup of tea in hand, she returns to her seat at the window and sighing, lowers herself into the shabby embrace of her only chair.
I used to be young...even pretty. Look at me now, she thinks, watching the cat rub her thick black body against bruised and swollen ankles. A siren screams into the bleak dusk. Bedraggled pigeons peck their way through the scraps on the windowsill.
I used to have friends, lovers. She remembers a summer day, the day it all began...or was it the day it all ended? Does it matter? Perhaps it should end now.
She finishes her tea, pulls herself out of the chair and turns toward the bathroom.
Once inside, she shuts the door and looks at her distorted reflection in the gray water pooled at the bottom of the cracked porcelain sink, the drain jammed with hair and scum. A spider watches her from its web in the corner of the stained ceiling.
A shiny razor winks at her from its place at the edge of the sink...waiting.