Her (and Me)
She sat in a small, dark, rancid corner, left to rot for all of time. Her knees were hugged tightly to her chest as she slumped her head where the two walls intersected, stringy brown hair tumbing over her shoulders. Her pointed feet were nearing a sharp right angle, encased in weathered slip-ons that looked like two gargantuan beetles. The shreds of a white beach dress hung around her, exposing mud-caked and grimy skin. I was disgusted. The weak whimsy, the audacity! I should have let her go long ago, but still in that room I permitted her stay. Why? Why did I think that part of me could be of use in the first place?