Dust motes floated down through the sliver of sunlight that landed on the bed. Upon the floor, atop of her discarded dress, her latest scrawling lay within her splayed open book. Far from the fine, practiced hand that would normally be displayed, rather, more haphazard, lazy, the ink blotched in places, even a few small crimson drops staining the parchment. The words within also a stark contrast to what would usually be written. Her dog went from a silent, curled up, peaceful, grey, lanky mess at the end of the bed, to a snarling, skidding, mass of claws and teeth as he reacted to the sound of loud knocking upon the door. Waking with a start, she sat up, far too quickly. Grasping at her head, the weight of the wine taking its toll upon her, she tried to muffle out the sound, burying her head beneath a pillow as she laid back down.
Gerlof..Gerlof Gerlof Gerlof...you, are an arse. Yes, an arse.
I knew! I knew and it will drop off Gerlof, Arselof! Ha! Arselof...Poking it where it isn't wanted, I could tell her, I could, I will, could, will. Shall talk to who I want, when I want, bed every last one if I want!
Little wretch Bloom...you are an arse. Be nice they said, be nice? No no no no no. I was nice, you were an arse. I'll ruin you too. You want death? too easy. Sufferings better. Blarse. You don't deserve him.
I can't remember your name, nice, may make you mine. You're not an arse. Made me smile, I want to smile.
I hate this town.
Eventually she gave up. A soft, large blanket, heather greens and lilacs, wrapped around her like an oversized fluffy cloak, bundled over her head and trailing behind her as if she were some colourful insect. Far from the beautiful image should would normally aim to portray, her eye lids heavy, her skin dry and her hair poking out from the soft cocoon like pieces of haphazardly scattered straw. The incessant pounding from outside upon her door continued, causing the pounding in her head to intensify. Yelling she shouted in her native dialect for them to go away, forgetting the locals never understood her in that tongue. Cursing, she passed the table with two empty wine bottles upon it, cursing again she tried to shoo her dog whose threatening bark at the attacking door was doing little to dissuade the person behind it from continuing to knock. The bolts stuck, the iron protesting as she moved them along with the grating sound of metal upon metal. The lock was wise and decided not to test her patience, the key turning with a soft clunk. The afternoon sun crept in from the opening door, open just enough to glare at the person the other side, without hesitation she closed it again. The pounding continued. Closing her eyes she waited for it to stop, willed it to stop, her back pressed to the thick oak door as if the blanket itself was a wall of iron. Moments passed and with a sigh of resignation, her back feeling the small movements caused by the persons insistence to get her attention, she stood, opened the door and simply declared to the figure..
"Mother, do come in"
