Her face, a raisin. Old, used and smiling. Her nose, a beak. Long, hairy and crinkled. Her mouth, a story book, toothless and dribbling. Her Chin, lost, also hairy and catching the dribble.
There I lay, motionless, blind to my fate. The room; Desolate and dark but at the same time home. I was just a shadow, a singed scar that had been etched into the grotty lino.