6257. a room full of hope

High hopes she held in her small gloved hands, grand dreams of silk and song, piano keys tingling under pale fingers, a future laid out all golden and serene. Rosecheeked creature, yes, the boys turning in the street to catch the drift of her petticoats, a laughter like silver shillings dropping into a velvet purse.

​Then the dark crept in. The mind’s small machinery ticking wrong, whirring, hot and fretful. Worry tore at her, a black dog gnawing the bone of her peace, until the mirror returned a stranger—hollowed cheek, dull eye, the sweet blossom withered before its hour. The head a cage of wild birds flapping, flapping, no rest for the weary soul.

​And so to the cobbles, the ill lit alleyways of darktown, where the rain slickens the flagstones and shadow blends with shadow. A painted mouth now, rouge pressed thick on pale despair, selling the poor cheap temple of her flesh for a handful of copper coin and a drop of gin to drown the screaming inside. A sad creature of the lamp-posts, beckoning through the mist to passing boots and heavy coats.

​Downhill then, swirling like dirty gutterwater after a heavy downfall, round and round into the drain. No bottom to it, only the long slow fall from grace, remembered music turning to harsh streetcries, and the high hopes once held, now just dust under a passing wheel. Gone, all gone into the thick murky fog.