She finds herself panicked when she misplaces one, hyperventilating which she has never done before. People notice the change and call her jovial because she laughs at the smallest things, a teenage giggle. She exhibits no other emotion but that giggle. She eats more and watches more television, the dishes piling up in the sink even though she has a dishwasher. Laundry too, litters the floor of bedrooms, sprawling out into the halls where people trip.
Food becomes a microwave production.
She starts buying Soap Opera magazines to read the plot a day before. She now sits like a grey ooze. She stares at her clock for hours and watches the hands revolve backwards, laughing. Lines of grey flick through her hair, her legs and armpits unshaven. The house fills with the smell of a silent suffering, pungent and old.