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The days all seem to blend together with ease like the messy finger paintings of a child that showcase a wide array of blinding colors and discord. Winter makes Marlow sink further into her mattress, waiting for her bundle of blankets to swallow her up, consume her very being or the body that's been left behind at least. Her room has become a familiar sight. If she ever moved from her bed she would be able to tell you the exact amount of steps it takes to travel from the door to her bed, or the door to her desk, or the closet to her desk, or any combination of here and there. The point is that Marlow has memorized every aspect of the room. She knows exactly which order the books that line the shelves are in (and there is no particular order); it goes The Little Prince, Ariel, Slaughterhouse-five, The Great Gatsby, The Waste Land, and so on.
She knows each groove in the wooden desk, each floorboard that creeks with the slightest pressure, each crack in the ceiling that looks down upon her. Marlow has spent the last two months stuck in the same stupor, anchored with the grief that has since consumed her. Most days were spent watching the way the snow made her white brick walls glow with light, and how the falling snow cast shadows of speckles across her ceiling, though they disappeared as soon as they came.
Marlow was barely breathing at this point. Every basic function seemed too tedious and laborious, much too difficult to actually perform. Her limbs were like cement these days and everything reminded her of him. It should've been easier—this transition. She really should've seen it coming. Everyone else certainly did, but Marlow always had hope. That was what would kill her.
It's four o'clock in the afternoon when Marlow finally emerges from her cocoon, and it's only because her sock covered feet are still cold even from beneath three blankets and a comforter. Her bones ache when she stands up from her bed, leaving a Marlow sized indent in the mattress. Moving to exit her room, she almost overlooks her reflection in the mirror. Half girl, half ghost, Marlow Wilcox slumps with tangled hair and dark eyes that are decorated with purple bruises. Her skin is pale and translucent, a reflection of the thick snow outside of her apartment. There's no life here anymore.
When she leaves the room, letting the door stay ajar, Marlow hears hushed voices coming from the kitchen. Jessie and Toni look up in surprise, the former's lips tilting up into a bright smile. Marlow appreciates that Jessie doesn't treat her like she's breaking, but the girl's naturally sunny disposition only seems to make Marlow's heart hurt more. Toni on the other hand smothers her too much. It's understandable though. Toni has been her friend since Hogwarts. They'd been sorted into the same house and hadn't been apart since. Jessie was Toni's muggle girlfriend of two years. She didn't have the same kind of devotion to Marlow that Toni did. She couldn't possibly know.
