At Her Lowest

The sheets were black perhaps a vivid sign about the state of it, why praise the Lord? She'd slept the afternoon away and then the night, to rise but briefly in the day to sit and reminisce, inspired by the cold of yet another toilet seat. They called, those who still cared. All friends had scattered though, since she turned penniless; a pale and haggard skeleton, fine portrait of her anorexic days. There was a silence now, no clock that ticked, no calls, text messages were out for now, she could not know about the state of one small battery, devoid of life. And for the first and only time she snored, a rhythm not without appeal to spirits from the other side, and to the silence of a life that hung like spiderwebs from brittle twigs as if deciding to descend and find the end to what had been a mountain of sheer pain. She had no drugs, they would not sell to one so destitute, there was no charity. And so she slept and all her troubles had escaped through dusty drapes into the night. The Gods had seen it all and pondered it, her case was somewhat sad, perhaps unique. And thus, they smiled their little smiles and let it be, and she awoke that day and knew she would be free.