In the quiet lonely hours of the night, she lay staring at the ceiling. Walls of dancing moonlight shift and crawl while the heavy clock down the hall ticks off the intolerable seconds of her life. It was all fine, bearable even until he brought home his 'gift'. Life was boring. Life was predictable. Days could be counted on to follow certain rhythms, certain patterns. Every night an eventual release from the doldrums, washed away by dreamless sleep. Sleep was all but impossible now. Taken from her like so many other things. Robbed. Obliterated. Yesterday's hopes stored. Yet still she plotted. Only the shifting shadows knowing her mind, her inanity, her... Unraveling.