My reader is a lonely, fragile, elderly woman who lives in a Victorian mansion,
soon to live in a deserted, putrid grave. She sits
alone, everyday outside on her mahogany rocking chair imported from Europe that makes a
sharp sound as if someone is being
choked. She is reading the
last thing that she will ever lay her
aged, deep sea colored eyes on. She stops, and reflects on her past life, the beauty of it all, her kids, husband, brothers, and sisters that have all passed away before her. She feels a sudden
ache of loneliness in her weak, cherry colored heart.
She quickly closes the book.
She then knows that she needs to rest, but is too
weak to speak or get up. She
closes her eyes, not realizing that it was the
last time that she will ever fall into a deep sleep again.