She sits alone in the kitchen,
With a plate in front of her.
Fork and knife in each hand,
She cuts the food into small pieces,
And lifts it, almost in a mechanical manner,
Puts it in her mouth, and begins to chew away,
Not even registering the delicious flavour
Of it, let alone the smell and texture,
As she stares into blank space,
Her mind a blank slate.
Yet she registers sounds,
Irritating to her ears.
Strong, loud footsteps of a man walking up and down the stairs,
The sound of a hammer behind the kitchen wall, coming from the neighbour’s home,
The sound of her chewing her food,
And the bitter sweet sound of silence buzzing underneath it all.
The only sound she enjoys, is the sound of cold air blowing through the airconditioning,
As it hushes the other noises, slowly phasing them out.
She’s finished her food, to her surprise.
The pots and pans in the sink,
Await a good wash and rinse,
And she knows,
But her body won’t budge.
She tilts her head towards the clock,
But wasn’t it just half past three a few minutes ago?