Isadora – 7

Isadora glared at the figures seated across from her in the soft green chairs.

Isadora – 6

By noon, the humidity would have seeped into every corner.

In her hospice room, July was spilling in through the windows, its opaque light unapologetic and limp.

There would be no peaceful exit on her watch.

There was something serene – almost rhythmical – about the process, but she didn’t want to be soothed.

Small bits of her were disappearing; dissipating one by one.

Isadora sat silent, feeling herself die, one angry cell after another.

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