She stands on the barren soil, gazing into the nothingness.
Remnants of the past burst from the clay in mocking parodies of history. Rotting monarchs and tyrants lie in unmarked tombs, forgotten by all but one.
She could walk but where to? The world is this cruel, grey dead thing that stretches for miles and miles.
She wonders if there is anyone left alive.
She ponders if standing or moving were any different. She will rot either way.
But moving means she is still alive. Or does it mean she is dead?
Is it possible that she left her body some time ago and now she wanders these plains in a penance for some long forgotten sin?
She uses her staff to smash her leg.
The pain reverberates throughout her being and confirms her misfortune of still being alive.
She looks at her maimed limb, the cuts oozing blood. She thinks if she should fix it or leave it be.
She will rot anyway.
She doesn’t fix it and hopes that it’ll quicken her rotting.
After all, everyone else is rotten.
She shuffles on, despite knowing not where to go or if anyone is alive still.
The rot creeps on her slowly as she walks. The rot creeps in as she breathes.
Yet, it doesn’t take her.
She laments on her misfortune of being alive.
She wants the rot to take her. She wants it to consume her whole and leave her in a space of oblivion.
The rot is a selfish and cruel thing, just like this world is a cruel and dead thing. It watches her suffer, watches her bleed, watches her once porcelain exterior break beyond repair.
She wants to die but there is nothing to aid. She wants to live, but there is no purpose.
She is only the rot’s plaything, as she will be until the next Porcelain comes along.