A Random Act of Writing
There's a spot on the ceiling. It's small, black and stands out against the white quite nicely.
It's really the only thing she can focus on from her vantage point. There's really not much one can do while sprawled, paralized and numb, upon the floor
The feeling's quite odd, honestly, this numbness.
She was home alone, at least she thought she was alone, when it happened.
Her tea was about done brewing, and she had set one foot on the linlium of the kitchen floor when a sudden pain roared through ehr head, and the crunch from the blow to her neck resounded through the air.
Ink filled her vision and cotton her ears. After all, what respectable consiousness would stick around after a blow like that?
When she woke up, she found her place in shambles. Well, what she could see by moving her eyes in their sockets was in shambles. They'd been robbed, and she was left for dead.
Now she lies on the floor in the middle of the ruined room, immobile and numb from the neck down.
The warm gold of the setting sun creeps along the cluttered floor, as birds chatter to each other in cheerful conversation just outside the shattered window.
Her husband isn't due home for another week from his business trip. She wonders when she'll be discovered.
With an odd detachment, she wonders if she'll be alive when she is.
For now, though, her only company's the spot marring the pristene celing. If she comes out of this alive, she thinks she'll need to give that ceiling a damn good cleaning.