Cut.

A terrible quake shook her bones.
The room spun with colors in a spider web of stick and rot. She was utterly lost in it.
Methodical
Obsessive
Effortless
Numb
Things were turning red, turning into long dark lines across her skin.
Uneven, she apologized for not doing a neater job. They were scattered, just all over.
No more room really.
Sorry.
When the spins stopped she looked at her work of art, a scratched and striped canvas on olive skin
Let no one in.
It all happened so fast.
She began to obsess, to stare, to not care, to want to feel the sting of reality upon her wrist, upon her legs, hip bone, and the soft of her stomach.
Why?
There are no reasons, but then there are too many to find words for. Too many to care to explain to those who would simply think of her as a child .
The breakdown.
Mother has instructed her to cover up with silver and beaded bracelets.