The
kitchen excisted from sweet, bluecoloured tiles, the same colour as
the doors of the cupboards. A hand took cutlery from the case. A hand
which was part of a woman, who looked like a chubby person that had
lost weight in a short time. She had shores under her eyes and a lot
of wrinkles, although she wasn't quite old. Her face was hollow and
her eyes drowsy, like somebody had took the lights one for one out
them.
A knife, a fork and a spoon for desert. A spotless, white
plate. She put some insignificant, brown mire on it, it was supposed
to be pasta. Well, what did it matter ? She knew not why she lived
anyway.
One foot for one other, that's how she shuffled to the
massive, brown dining-table at the window which looked out at a
small, but maintain garden. Like she didn't want the dirty
something, which was food. She took a seat at a small, pink pillow
with under that a wooden chair. Knife right, fork left. A glass of
water and a box of pills. Of course, she could make a potion to be
happy again, to have a goal to live for, but what did it matter? Ze
had lost her family because of magic power and with that her smile.
Or herself actually.
She took the pills with small swigs – what
a marvellous collection of colours and size it was -. As if she was
scared to stitch in it. She wished she stichted in it. Then everybody
would believe she had 'normally' died. Well, everybody, who knew
her now anyway? All her friends and friends weren't there.
In
the beginning everybody supported her. The neighbour who tapped her
at her back with that glance of pityness in her eyes, the
condoleance-cards at the paws of owls. In the beginning, yes. But
then the pityness changed in suspicions and the gossip chased her. At
that moment she decided to leave the house, the save Burrow, full of
memories and smells, for a little house in the forest, close to the
city. Sometimes she saw a lost owl with a whereareyou-card, as she
were walking, but she didn't pay attention to it anymore. She
wanted to disappear.
Her cokkery was always considered as
tremendous by her husband and children, but since their death she had
given up en decided to cook as a muggle. Good food, she didn't want
it, she couldn't enjoy it.
In the meantime the features of her
face became hazardously lighted by a big lamp above the dining-table.
She took small bites, without batting an eyelid, while she still ate
something awfully disgusting. Maybe it came, because she ate it for
four months every day. Yes, that might be it.
A
smack. Her fork fell on the floor. The chair rattled when she shoved
it back. With her fists she smashed in the sludge, knocked the plate
to pieces. The splinters came in her hands, but she didn't feel it.
She grasped a handfull pills and put them fast in her mouth. One
swig, another swig and they were gone. She took more pills and more,
till they were alle gone.
The chair moved a bit, while she dropped
down. Her tongue sticked out her mouth and her eyes were turned
above.
Twelve weeks later she was found by the forester. He stared astonished at the broken piece of wood on the floor. He thought the moving pictures with on it only redhaired people at the least odd. But the most bizarre was the tattoe on her fore-arm, in the form of a skull with a snake out of his mouth. The forester shook his head. His son had the same tattoo.