As the flitting shadows prance in front of the undrawn curtains,
the loner sat unmoved behind patience.
The dark stilettos of motion teased her with seduction,
to coax her out of the silence that so shrouded her.
The curtains now rustled faintly as she gainly peered just for that moment,
then fell back down, never to open again.
All that was left were scars.
Scars of battle, scars of tears and scars of lies.
Hideous in all the failures, glorious in all the lessons.
Pride, lust and love, all tamed and laid out in one swoop for all to see and curse.

With this, the last act is to begin. Sit back and wait as the final curtain call signal draws near.

***

In a sparsely furnished apartment, Missy sits besides her dad's favorite arm chair, with a torn-up garment still held firmly in her hands. She was a woman around her mid twenties, slightly plump, yet voluptous in a nice way. Her lips were permanently pursed together, as if in a gesture of prideful defiance. In the background, a sorrowful tune of discord and lost love pours out from the whining Hi-fi next to the mantel, and Missy begins to murmur, at the same time, gently stroking the material still in her hand.

Missy: Now dear, don't you cry. Mama's going to buy you a mocking bird (raises her left hand and makes like she's wiping tears off an invisible person). And if that mocking bird doesn't sing, Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring. (sits with a gazed look, staring off into oblivion). There, there. Aren't you pretty now my little bride?

(A voice echoes across the bare room).

No response.

(Footsteps become audible as if an empty box was being drummed over and over again, louder and louder with strength)

(Chloe enters from the left stage: She was a poised woman with a worn-out expression, presumably around her late fifties, hardened with the coming of age and with the extravagence of life that has taken a toil on her simple life)

Chloe: What? hello? Missy?

...................................................... To be Continued ;>