Monquie

The lights were dim, the gloom engulfed young Monquie in its endless squaller. Fragments of plaster and shattered glass were stern around the small room, the once cream white walls were stained by damp and graffiti.

Monquie sat cross legged upon the abandoned, iron bed. The mattress was torn and filthy wit age. She stared out the barred window. A bitter draft blew in through its glassless frame and 'the victims of the autumn' had built up below its sill. 

No one came here. No one ever visited any more. Large gates had been put up with plastic, yellow warning signs and the front doors had been bolted. 

Monquie was alone. She wandered the dusty halls, kicking stones with her bare feet as she went. Madness drover her to dance along the corridors and sing a melancholy tune. 
This was her little home. Her palace of utter solitude. Stuck between humanity and hell, she was happy in limbo.

There was no war here, no pain or love, no worries and not work; just constant bliss. Entertainment was around every corner, a new brick to be inspected or an old room to be reviewed. 

The tails of her cotton dress fluttered behind her as she twirled, the soiled and frayed hem trailed along the ground. 

And as she stood upon the crooked roof and prepared to dive once again the church bell would toil midnight and she would disappear before she hit the ground.