Clementine

Not very good, but i really wanted to write something..
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She lay on the floor, barefoot. her hair crawled forgotten around her back, her nails were longer than she liked them to be, her head rested against the cold wooden floor. If it weren't for her blinking every once in a while you could have believed she was no longer alive, oh and there was the sound too. you could notice she was alive because when you listened very carefully you could notice a sound escaping from her closed lips, it was humming, barely audibly she hummed the tune to "Darling Clementine". She knew it well; it was one of the old memories that hadn't wisped away with her childhood. If she concentrated very much she could still remember the women, outside her window, the long skirts scrambling around the wind, their hair in tight buns as they hung the white sheets around the garden, singing all day long. She remembered the singing so vividly, the passionate songs were a part of those women, their voices singing loudly let the words mingle and make the sad tunes almost heartbreaking. At some point the music had became a part of them, the songs were like breathing, each note like the very breath they took. And still, years later, there she sat humming the story of Clementine on and on, time after time.
The room where she lay in was very dark; it was only lighted by a small window. The old window was never opened and it was covered by a yellowed, molded curtain. only the few specks of light that managed to struggle through the holes in the curtains came into the room and lighted the pale face in the floor.
The room, now old and crumbling to pieces, had once been a part of a home. People had once danced, and laughed, and smiled on the very floor where she sat. if you looked carefully in the corner of the room a child had scribbled initials on the floor, inside the fireplace still lay the ashes of the last fire that had been made, a fire that had warmed the old house and the people in it.