The Withering of Gaia

At the end of the day, an elderly woman is sat next to me. I can almost feel the arrow break through her skin and through her heart.

She sits, calmly.

At the end of the night, I am awoken by the golden embrace of our sun. Sweat.

She sits.

As I tiptoe through the house at the break of dawn, creaks arise from the room adjacent. I tiptoe back to investigate.

She still sits, I think. What a woman.

Coffee grounds and wild chemicals from the ol' factory fill my lungs. I cough into my sleeve.

She sits.

At the end of the day, I am sat with a woman next to me, arrow through her heart and all.

She sits.

Her tea has gone cold, I think.

Must get her another cuppa.

A whistle of a kettle and the drape of a blanket later, I am awoken at the break of dawn once more.

The woman is gone. Tea and all.

All that is left is a stain of blood, surrounding a silver arrow, which pierces through the back of a cellophane-wrapped armchair.

At least the armchair is neat and tidy, I think.

Wherever that woman is now, she sits. I know this, because I knew her. She always sits.

I take a sip of my cold tea from the night before.

We've run out of tea bags, I think.

I could almost feel the arrow break through my skin and through my heart.

I sit.