Fiction II

The leather of my sandals pierced violently into the flesh of my foot in the kind of way that once removed, a mark would remain as an imminent reminder of what was once there. My two smallest toes looked to be one as they patiently awaited release from the binding foot covering. They were also curiously without the bright magenta paint illuminating my other toes.

In the dimly lit room, the contrast between my white linen skirt and my skin is heightened, making the scene resemble some sort of antiquated black and white film. In some ways, I feel like this is what it is, like I've been in this same place so many instances before but still have no idea in which corner hides the solution.

Pieces of my hair fall into my line of sight, obscuring portions of the wall, distorting it into a contemporary art work you'd find precociously decorating the white over scaled walls of a urban loft owned by some pseudo-aristocrat who seduces exotic women with his feigned interest in fine art. Bitter? No. They only want his money.

If by command of some higher spirit I slowly stand up, lurching towards the sink that has a fault sized crack down its middle. Tiny pieces of porcelain and veneer chip off, leaking onto the floor below. My fingers clench it's smooth surface in desperation. One hand moves cautiously upwards. my eyes transfixed upon it. My index finger traces my name into the mirror. Not a permanent mark of my presence but just that.