saf's pov
Those words rang through my ears for the rest of the night. I rewatched the clip multiple times in a desperate chance of disbelief, but the more i did so, the more the cold air cut into my soft cheeks.
I sat on my bed for a long period of time, examining the floorboards with extreme interest. They all had cracks and dust sprinkled upon them. The creme wall paint was peeling, when i touched it, flakes came raining down.
I wandered to the mirror and looked at myself again. I hadnt been crying, or rubbing any part of my face. But the makeup was sinking. I saw the black bags underneath my eyes. I saw the stout eyelashes that grew wildly from their damaged roots. I saw the straw hair, drying from the top of my head. I no longer glowed or had any form of happiness laced into the tissue of my skin.
I slumped down onto the edge of the aged mattress, a swarm of dust rising and dissolving into the cold air particles. Every last drop of energy had been drained from my crumbling bones.
I looked out of the window and saw an old lady sitting solitarily on a cracked sofa, her eyes glued dully to the flashing TV screen. I knew the lady. Ms Thompson. She never got married. She never had children. She never even moved house. All her life, her family had consisted of one distant great aunt in Cuba. She was an orphan and her brother had died of glandular fever at 13 months, not that she could remember anyway.
The old lady turned her face toward my own. I leaned in with interest as i recognised her speckled green eyes and rounded button nose. Under all those wrinkles i would've even thought she almost looked like..
I stumbled back in shock, shaking my head vigorously in misbelief.
.. she almost looked like..
..me..
