Her looming eye struck across the furniture as she finished painting the rest of the hallway in a valiant shade of “perplexing purple.” It wasn’t long before she garnished her anger with the all too frequent intonations of her one and only apathetic villainy, a chorus of banshee wails which rumbled through the tactile walls of the community centre.

The paint made a leap of faith onto the wall as Mrs x primed her misery into an un-abiding snarl of contempt and vicious rage. She was a vagabond, a hide and seeker, and a wishful dreamer. But reality was an enemy to her demeanour and it was this war of the worlds which brought to her the leather exterior and the annihilated tongue.

She could make a noise alright, but any astuteness in thought was bound inside her by the thick torrid twine of depravity. The effect had mutilated any hope of intelligent communication. For this reason people generally assumed the inside was as dysfunctional as the outside, despite momentary spasms of normality in her articulation. Mrs x was a dunce, a no hoper, a lethargic street dweller, with no prospects, no witt, and no intention to obtain them.

If only they knew…