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Hyper-detailed photorealistic night still, deep focus, razor-sharp micro-detail in every fabric, thread and strand, camera at eye level beside her, three-quarter view. The whole attic scene is printed on one torn photograph lying flat on a wide black ground, its edges ripped jagged with loose white fibres. She breaks out of it: her raised arm reaches past the top right torn edge, the flung hank spilling onto the black beyond the paper, and the toe of her right boot crosses the right edge, both casting soft shadows. A slender grown woman of about thirty, narrow sloping shoulders, slim arms, sitting on the bare floorboards, leaning back on one hand, the near knee drawn up close to her chest, the other leg stretched out along the boards. She wears exactly two scuffed black knee-high boots, one on each foot. Soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, bright glass lit from within, a catchlight in each, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Mascara dried in grey streaks, dark plum lipstick, chin lifted, a small closed-lip smirk lifting one corner of her mouth, looking straight at you over her raised knee, cold and level, half fury half relief. The dress: a fitted black velvet top with long sleeves, slipped off one shoulder, a deep softly ruched sweetheart neckline edged with a fine dark trim; a short skirt of layered black lace, an open cobweb-like lace overlay with uneven scalloped edges, every lace motif sharp, frayed loose threads at the hem; black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo; sheer black tights worn through in small round holes at both knees and one thigh, the frayed mesh curling at each edge, pale freckled skin showing through, a few pulled snags. Chipped black nail polish. Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper, a few short new hairs growing from her scalp above her left ear in fresh vivid rainbow. Her raised fist flings the last long hank out of the picture, fading to washed-out rainbow, the scissors dropped beside her. A few long cut lengths lie scattered across the bare boards, losing their colour as they lie: the freshest beside her still faintly rainbow, fading along each strand, the rest drained to ash grey. Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the scattered hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain. The room. A shabby attic, peeling floral wallpaper, dead roses on the windowsill, her starry overcoat over a sagging velvet sofa. Lonely, beautiful and defiant, by eryn
