The market was deserted; she walked hand in hand with darkness. Perfect place for nothing, for no one. All empty stalls and empty hope. She placed her heart on her sleeve, better for the world to find her. She sat amid the broken shambles, the dishevelled bushes, the cracked benches. She was a sliver in the cog-works, a figment in the mind, a ghost in reality. Her head bowed, her tears heavy, her silence deafening. If anyone walked by they would find her limbs, like trees, flayed and twisted, sad. They would see her face scarred from age, torn from sorrow, destroyed by hate. She holds one hand out, a memory, a reaction; waiting for something to drop and her world to start again. She cannot offer music, she cannot offer solace, she can only beg for redemption, for salvation, for recognition. She crumbles to the ground, a puddle extracting the filth from the pavement below. She can smell regret clinging to her, life rotting in her, death inches from her face breathing harsh on her cheeks. She can feel her humanity dripping with the rainwater, her emotions ebbing with the waters flow, she can feel herself hardening like the stone at her feet, behind her back, under her head. She feels the cool crisp air blanket her, as sleep nudges at her hollow eyes, dreams and wishes long vanished.
A lone woman lies in a box in a deserted market, breath coming out in fog, ghost image of someone she used to be. Her cloths are torn, ratty, and her body looks small like a child. The world keeps revolving, even as she is fading into night.
– Tegan Thuss