Stirring, then subsiding, she purrs before kicking the sheets off the bed. As she does so, the mist recedes, and her pale body shines beneath the light bulb above. Curiously, she doesn’t remember switching it on. Listening out for the sounds of others, she can’t make out whether or not anyone is in the house with her. Such uncertainty provokes her into making a move, which she knows is only a good thing because otherwise she’ll dilly dally all afternoon until it’ll be too late to do anything at all. Getting dressed in her black jeans and mouse-face sweater, she sneaks down the stairs hoping not to alert anyone. Absurd, really, because she still can’t decide if she’s by herself or not. Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she slides into her boots before popping on her mittens. She’s well aware that she’s too old to be wearing mittens, and yet she doesn’t care. It’s cold outside. Too cold for a girl with a skin too few to be walking the streets with bare hands, that’s for sure. If you squint, it’s as if she’s just a child—one of those kids who seem angelic yet with a look in their eye that spells out murder like pissholes in the snow. Even though there’s no need, she pops on a little lipstick. With mittens on, it’s quite the struggle. She doesn’t take them off though, even if it becomes a chore it needn’t be. Colouring her pouting mouth black, it matches her eyes, not to mention the spilling curls of her hair. With little deep breaths, she stands before the door. Eying herself in the mirror on the wall like she’s done a thousand times before, she can never seem to decide whether or not she’s pretty, or mere trash. She’s had plenty of men, that’s true, but the guys she’s had were like flies around shit. Frowning, she knows if she hesitates, she’ll turn around and go back to bed, so without further ado, she reaches out her hand. Turning the golden doorknob, she steps outside, and in an instant, the mist gobbles her up.