Created in CANVA using elements

“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

She stood at the window. Quite still. The slits in the venetians cast grey shadows over her body, cutting her into a hundred pieces. Quite like how she felt. She felt a hint of nervous excitement. She felt desirous for what would come next. She felt a certain uncertainty that it would all unravel – to what extent, however, she could not be sure.

Her eyes moved from the tall buildings opposite her, which rose from the sidewalk; windows crawling up each of them like ants. Her eyes darted from the parked white coupes to the black sedans which sidled by; an occasional horn breaking the monotony of the streetscape. She noticed the bustling pedestrians; some strolling; some with deliberate pace, and others with far less of an understanding of whether they chose to walk with a steady gait, or meander with a somewhat less sense of determination – perhaps with a certain timidity of expression, perhaps with a creeping smile, perhaps with a maniacal guise of disdain for life. The joie de vivre of the bright red fire hydrants and the swooning swallows was left unnoticed by the city’s residents, a grey pall had been laid over the entirety of it all.

And then she moved.

The light slouching through the blinds continued to cut the room into slithers of grey and darkness, transforming the woman’s appearance from poised grace only moments earlier, to something far more sinister. She reached down to take a cigarette out of the case hidden by her garter belt, and with a practised flick of her wrist she demanded flame from her lighter. Further shadows danced around the room, offering enough luminescence to see the clock face. It was not quite time; not long, not soon, but not quite.

The phone rang, and she answered it in a terse tone, which she slightly elevated to intone her question. A dispassionate conversation played out alongside the continued transition of the woman. She had stood erect only moments earlier, yet now she began to slump, the sharp angles that her body had formed were now softened and her head felt closer to the ground. She took a deep breath, not hearing the pretence of remorse through the receiver. She took a deep breath, not really knowing what she would say next. She took a deep breath, and had come to understand the line was now dead.

She dropped the phone and, as if in slow motion, the phone began its descent. It slowly arched backwards as the weight of the corded end sought to balance out the drop. The lifeless cord seemed to hang in the air and it didn’t seem to notice that it was about to be pulled to the ground. The receiver continued to turn, and by now, it was gathering momentum. It didn’t seem to want to stop, and would only be satisfied with a loud thud against the old pine floorboards. As the phone smacked the ground, it seemed to grasp at safety, as it bounced once, and then again, before settling onto its side – the dial tone missing, and once stilled of its ordeal, offered only silence.

The woman was silhouetted against the lounge room wall, still sliced in shades of black and grey from the window. Sitting on the table was a half empty decanter of an amber liquid. The cut crystal tumbler, half emptied in a single swill, sat perched on the woman’s lip.

In only the span of a few minutes, she had become a shadow of her former self. She moved to the window to watch. The time had passed, it was no longer quite time, but it quite some time past. She stared to the people below, and resumed their stories: they were jovial, they were purposeful, they were, she imagined, everything that she was not.