Mother (a fragment)

Monica stared.  She touched the picture with the tip of her finger, twirled it and shook it until it grew large enough to block the window, throwing the room into an all too familiar half light. A comfortable, welcome half light.

Monica stared, not really looking at the picture, which she knew by heart. Every shape, every shade, every line, she had already seen a thousand times. It had grown to be more real for her than any room of the house, any street, any park. It was part of her, as if her brain refused to look at a world that didn't have the picture standing out right in front of her eyes.

Monica stared. She knew this was a pointless exercise. That there was nothing new to learn from it, nor any enjoyment to be had. Not even pain, this far along the road. Inner Monica told her so, over and over, and she was right. Monica knew she was right, and still was powerless to resist.

Monica flicked the picture close, resigned to leave it once again behind.

And still she stared.