She lies on her bed, blankly staring at the ceiling. One arm is exposed- dressings taped down blood dripping onto an old T-shirt- off white with new red streaks.

She wears a watch, something clean on this dirty arm, the hand is purple, limp and cold. The finger pads have skin torn off. Each finger is curled up, forefinger resting on the thumb. The hand is off at an angle, so the thumb straight from the arm- but the elbow is bent so the forearm is perpendicular to her torso.

Some pale yellow skin, with long scars and blood- some nearly black, some not clotted and red. A red Biro has been used to write in block capitals HELP PLEASE underlined repeatedly.

But some has been covered by dressing tape, and an E has had flesh taken out of it- raw flesh exposed.

The violence of this arm is an antithesis to her body. Vacant eyes penetrate the blankness that only she sees. Her face, eyes having cried, has streak marks on it; nose damp and a relaxed but shut mouth.

Her three other limbs are covered up but held in such a way that you know these are wounded in a similar way. She hardly breathes, nothing moves- her eyes never even blink.

And then her eyes slowly shut and her breathing gets gradually shallower before gently stopping. The only noises are the rain beating outside on the window and a ticking clock.

The sound, as well as being smoothing, grows on you, engulfing your thoughts, until you have to move- suddenly standing you break, snap and laugh.

This inappropriate action shocks you, and then tears well in your eyes, and your body crumples till you fall- gently, silently onto the floor and you hear the clock ticking.

And it stops- you are alone- and only with a body and a dead clock. You are silent, so can hear new breathing in the room- you turn and see a man sweetly smiling at you and your situation, but his arm has a violent weapon gripped in it, and you see his finger grip tighter on the trigger and then it fires.