Gabby could still see the door, every detail of it, the grain partly concealed by half stripped paint, sticky paint, making a sandpaper surface. It stuck in bits as she pounded against it with her fists. Stuck in the skin rash’s that formed on her hands, she looked at the old scars, a constant reminder. Ran her fingers over them, tracing their history that gave them their life. Not a good time to remember but it had made her strong, those yesterday years.
She stroked her second chin and twigged her pert little nose, dealing with an early hay fever itch. Raised her now generous frame and shuffled towards the stove, making sure to avoid catching her foot in the threadbare carpet. A greasy, blackened well loved kettle, made a match to chipped, tannin stained mug. An extra large mug, extra heavy mug, it helped her tremor, from the nerve damage from scars.
OK, I'm hooked
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