Refuge

Her body sits hunched.
Her mind: in a place far away.
Alone.

The small white room in which she sits; intensely still, intensely silent.
Like a shadow, she is silent. Silence is depression. Silence is her weapon - her purposeful isolation, the only way to survive.
Her dull, rhythmical heartbeat, is droned out by the comforting sound of the computer, which composes merely a monotonous whirr.
Her eyes, faded green, wander up along the crack in the wall. The scar - a visual symbol of the room’s character; tired, sombre, wounded. But for her there is no outward symbol. No scar. Just her eyes.

The white paint; like the hard shell on her outside, is beginning to damage: the paint; crusted and peeling, her barriers are being broken down – pieces of her soul once torn apart, now irreplaceable. Her spirit is painstakingly breaking away, the pieces of her being, lost eternally - exposing her, like that of the walls’ gnarled, rotting wood.
Those walls of the room hold incess...