Violet
There is nothing to mark the passage of days. Nothing but bruises.
She watches, day by day, as they fade from blues and violets to greens and yellows and browns.
They become her calendar. For a time.
It soon becomes far to confusing to keep track of them all.
She still gazes at them contemplatively from time to time.
She begins to worry about her sanity.
Her leg is still throbbing. A blow to the shin as punishment for nearly tripping Rossiter.
She is suddenly fascinated by the violent violet reminder.
How can something that hurts so much be so beautiful?