She is numb.
Her head, from hours upon hours of mindless staring, which seems to be all she does nowadays (seems, not really, it is). Her ass, from hours upon hours of doing nothing but sitting upright in her bed, only ever lying down or standing up to sleep or go to the bathroom. She has needs, she's still human. Her heart, from hours upon hours of nothingness, of gray and black and bleakness that just won't go away and now she's decided that yes, indeed, yes, she absolutely loathes those colors, but white, white is what makes her want to throw up until she's hacking and dry-heaving nothing because there's nothing in her.
There never was anything in her.
The nurses finally take the asphodel away, and she lets them.
The only thing she regrets (after long hours of swirling thoughts) is that she wasn't able to break the pot and use the ceramic shards to bleed some color into this otherwise achromatic hellhole.
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Her Definition Of "Life"
Short Story"A sane person to an insane society must appear insane." -Kurt Vonnegut "she wasn't living" She truly believed that she had found the meaning of life. Or rather, the meaning of her life. "there never was anything in her" For her, she wanted to spen...
