A Small Victory

She reached for a ceramic bowl next, one painted with tiny flowers. But as she lifted it, she caught sight of the ivory box on the table which was still open and holding the one thing she couldn't bear to lose.

Her arm froze in mid-throw.

The bowl slipped from her numb fingers and shattered on the floor, but she barely heard it. She was staring at the box, at the powder that had become her closest companion, her most reliable comfort.

It was the only thing in the room that understood her. The only thing that never judged her or asked her to be someone she wasn't.

Rosana sank onto the bed, surrounded by the wreckage of her rage. Glass crunched under her bare feet, but she didn't feel the pain. The powder had wrapped her in cotton, made everything distant and soft.

She looked around at what she'd done. The room was destroyed, beautiful things reduced to trash. Like her life. Like her dreams.