Where: The infirmary Who: Marlene and Open What: Complaining about all her injuries When: early morning
Marlene was sick of feeling like crap, her bones were fixing very slowly and rather painfully, the extent of her injuries was not as grave as others, but she was not concerned with others, but with herself. Her dream had been utterly tragic, a remembrance of her days in the dingy flat of Latin Quarter in Paris, she was back at the misery and stinking gutters of her days there, then there had been a fight in a tavern, her mother stabbed to death by one of her companions and she hit to insanity by numerous characters of this morbid nightmare. The nightmare had taken its toll on her, physically, but mostly emotionally.
What had she achieved by leaving the embrace of her mother so long ago? Books, poetry, fortune, music, an empty house, pressure to marry, lack of talent, lack of future. She found herself idealizing the filth she'd lived during her childhood. Marlene was everything but a sentimentalist and upon remembering such awful days she could only quietly weep, ashamed of her feeling and her weakness. There was people around but few, nobody noticed her low sobs and encouraged by this solitude she allowed herself proper tears to dwell from her eyes, desperation do they call it? selfpity might be more accurate.