MEGAN COULD HAVE SCREAMED. She could have dropped the feather and fallen back against the tiled walls of the shower cubicle. She could have trembled. Vomited. Should have, maybe. But she didn't. She stared at it and turned it. And that was all.

The feather was pure black. It had no edge of deep blue or sliver of grey. It was the black you would never find in a tin to be brushed or rolled onto walls. The shade where there was only the night with no hint of dawn. She could only see the barbs if she pulled them apart, the colour was so uniform. The water from the shower had washed it clean of blood but, even though she was still under the cascade, the feather appeared dry. It was as if the liquid avoided its surface, unwilling to touch it. But she saw the water and feather connect. She saw the drops bounce on contact. Saw the feather bend under the shower's touch. Yet, still, it remained dry.

When Megan finally moved, her fingers were wrinkled. She carefully placed the feather by the sink and dried herself. She brushed her teeth. Dried and brushed her hair, wrapping it into a bun atop her head. She moisturised her arms, legs and torso, then her face. Throughout her routine, she didn't look at the feather once. It remained next to the sink, tucked between the tap and the ceramic soap dish. Before pulling on a sweatshirt, she looked at her back in the mirror. There was barely anything there to mark the wound where it had been pulled from inside of her. A short, slightly curved line, fading as she watched it, gave evidence that anything had happened at all. She rubbed the area. It was smooth.

Picking up the feather, she went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She took a fresh bottle of wine and cracked it open. A glass was an unnecessary expenditure of clean crockery. She ignored the clock on the wall eyeing her accusingly, ticking louder to proclaim 9:30 a.m. was far too early for alcohol. She tilted her head back, letting the wine slide down her throat. She wiped the dribbles from her chin on her sleeve, feeling her descent into depravity tug at her ankles as it threatened to pull her under.

Megan held onto the feather. She wasn't looking at it, but didn't set it down either. It felt warm in her hand, but not with a physical sense of heat. She couldn't define why, but she needed it in her hand. It was a part of her. Exhumed from her body. While she'd been preening herself, she'd left it on the bathroom basin. She had felt something was missing. An emptiness had opened in the pit of her stomach, which was only refilled when she picked it up again.

She walked through the lounge to the front door and opened it. It hadn't been locked, and she chided herself for forgetting such a necessary precaution. Falling asleep after downing a bottle of wine wasn't her best plan. It could have resulted in attack or worse. There was nothing of value in the cabin to steal. Claudia had told her the furnishings were sparse and consisted only what was required. She hadn't been lying. So that left Megan herself. She was sure a burglar would find something worth taking from her, and she shuddered at her carelessness.

Looking out, she realised she needed to clear her thoughts. The trees were hushed and still, waiting for her mind to settle and become attuned to the silence. Her self-centred mood from the previous day—previous life—made her not appreciate the beauty around her. So many acres of lush forest, teeming with birds and animals, should have filled her with a sense of peace. Instead, the turmoil couldn't be quieted or stifled. She took another long swig from the bottle and belched. Shaking her head, she returned inside.

This was meant to be a break. An escape from the prison she'd placed herself in. She could feel the bars confining her and felt she had a life sentence of misery. The green mile to Death Row was a long road littered with the shattered remains of her heart and the hearts she had broken.

The rest of the day was spent in a daze of self-pity, self-reproach and staring at a small smudge on the wall from the comfort of the sofa, washed down with alcohol. She wished for a television to help her leave this plane of existence. Watching another's reality seemed much worse than her own. There wasn't anything to watch, though, and she had to be content with the smudge. It was a dark blur of dirt that simply stayed where it was and let her view it. She could go for a walk, but the fresh air would only serve to remind her how suffocated she was.

The smudge was non-judgmental. It didn't try to remind her of anything. Not that she needed the help.

Megan yawned. The bottle of wine was empty and she thought about getting another. She had brought a good supply with her but hadn't intended on going through them so quickly. She wondered if she could get online deliveries out here but, with no WiFi signal, she wasn't able to find out. That was the idea. Distance. Isolation. WiFi was something she definitely needed to do without, even though she relied upon it. Connectivity was such an integral part of daily life, the absence of it felt like a physical amputation.

The feather had been in her hand for the whole day, yet she had forgotten it was there. She no longer felt the soft bristles or the sharp end. The sense of touch where it and her fingers met was absent, or had decided it no longer wanted to feel the contact. Even when she happened to use or look at her hand, she automatically cupped it in her palm or her eyes slid over it as if invisible. Megan became oblivious to its existence and the feather drifted from her consciousness.

She smiled at the smudge. It didn't smile back. She thought it might as, having stared at it for so long, her eyes were making the edges grow vaguer and the surface fluctuate as if it were somehow alive. She looked at the empty bottle, yawned again and fell asleep.