Fruit flies over a kitchen sink and reddish paint splashed across the tiles in a vicious X. Smashed china crunches beneath feet that don't dare move and somewhere something bigger than a mouse scurries for cover. Screams from squemish women - one faints and in a pointless act of chivalry a man swears in the direction of the noise. Glares at the man - the silence has been broken and along with it something far less tangible; an ambience of narcissistic respect for this person they had never spoken to. He hangs his head and turns away looking ill. Another makes a move to pick up the disarrayed furniture and someone notices; steps forward to help him. Together the group tidy the flat in a trance, opening windows and letting fresh air wash away stale dust. They pry through the bedroom, setting a lamp back on the stand, flicking through photo albums but through unspoken agreement no one enters the kitchen, where a rotting stench still rules, and creatures rustle behind cabinets, as if whispering secrets in a foreign language. The story perhaps, of how this woman came to be alone.
Oh, if walls could speak
They'd only found her when it started to smell.
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