Out of a writing prompt comes...

BEAUTY

A woman is sitting alone in a house. She knows she is alone in the whole world, every other living thing is dead. The doorbell rings. She doesn’t answer. In the immense silence of the mansion there is only the lonely sound of the bell. Insistently, like a knife trying to cut through pale skin. Still the woman doesn’t move. The clock in the kitchen marks 3.33 AM. She looks at her nails – the nail polish is coming off like the skin of a snake is disposed off. Only, she knows there’s no rebirth for her. The fingers are old and no ring is adorning the hands. She burns inside. Her hair is thin and the scalp is showing. Where once was joy, now darkness falls. It consumes her eyes, takes away the blue and drains the energy and life. No tears, no expression – nothing. And still the doorbell rings. She doesn’t move and looks like a crippled plaything. Prosthetic synthesis of dying flesh and bone. The spine is just a string. The skin on her nose is peeling like sins are washed off. Pale and so white. Rotting, stenching her body is. The lips show an already eaten carcass. She is the carrion of a murdered prey. The teeth are worn out and some bits have already fallen off. She is naked and the breasts are only wrinkles. The sex reeks and stinks of urine and faeces are on the floor. The tap begins to drip. The flesh on her tired bones starts to melt and fall. Holes form on her cheeks, flies enter and lay their eggs. All the matter dissolves, leaving only the bones and no insides. No heart. The machina of life crumbles down. There is food on the table to serve as sport for the insects which march alone. The doorbell stops ringing.