V

Hazel was not happy. Even the curving porcelain walls of the bath tub were closing in on her. She felt marooned. Utterly isolated, utterly lost. Her mind and self drifted, lightly bobbing on the bath water as though she had been shipwrecked and was now merely flotsam on the sea.
      She sipped another sip of cherry brandy. Everything felt muffled and fluffy, especially the movement of her arms which seemed at once light and weighed down under everything, the white tiles, the damp air, the days and days and days of absolute boredom.
      The water was vaguely cold now. The hot stuff had run out a while ago. She would have to get up soon. Get up and go to bed and then arise to another day of work. The morning would cancel out all the hours of the night and she would not feel rested.
      The clink of the glass, which was a beautiful glass, and that was something, clanged against the porcelain and felt incongruous with all else. It was too sharp. The sharpness tasted bitter in her mouth. And then she realised it had broken.
      She stood up and winced as she did so, feeling the sharpness in her foot. A curl of red laced up through the water. A broken glass, a cut toe: she cleared it all up with a sinking heart, sighing deeply.
      That time that she had felt engaged with the world around her felt like the memory of a made-up fairytale. She marvelled at her paintings, wondering how she had ever had the drive. She still thought they were beautiful. But weren't they sort of hopeless things? Much too pretty. Who wanted beautiful things these days?