When the hell begins to smell.

The rough cigarette still burnt expelling a thick infamous smoke, nearly to reach its filter. Despite the smoke, his fragrance was still around, haunting her feelings and senses as images of a past not completely done. There was only half an hour that he had shut the disloyal door, which stared at her at that very moment. It gazed her steadily straight on her breast, as if an embodied chest, animated by a being that queried her questions without answer. She could not move because he had gone taking everything away, putting all the belongings she most and only had.

Memories were raiding her conscience, causing irresolution, and pushing forcefully off all her last attempts of being. The seule thing she wished was she could be.

Three hours passed through her life as if nails being hammered into her nostrils, torturing, paining. The same continuous languor carried on. The cigarette became ash. The ashtray was about to be entirely powder. Her breast had being pierced a hole full of nothingness by the distressing door.

There was no longer sense on making up for dinners, concerts, plays that used to be watched with him. A sort of kindness, which she once pretended to play, was no longer needed to be sustained. Perhaps now the most important thing to be done was how to get rid of the ashtray’s ashes, maybe not.

When the phone rang, she had no strength to answer it. He could be trying to tell her that everything could have been wrong. He could be definitely departing. The thought of million possibilities may have killed her. Her body was found in the next morning, when the newspaper deliverer forced the door trying to get some tips, and saw the beauty pale lying toughly on the floor.

Golden broken chains, silver necklaces, cheap fragrance perfume, old yellowed worn clothes and everything else was left behind, apart from a disgusting mint barely chewed gum.