Mabel sits on the bed, criss-cross, hands resting on her knees as if she was meditating. As a last resort, she had drawn on them too, smudged black rings that couldn't be seen in the dark, trailing up her arms, under her shirt, and anywhere she could reach.

Mabel sits on the bed and stares at the figure she'd created on the wall, eyes black, not moving. Occasionally, her eyelids move up and down, much too slow to be called a blink. She doesn't seem to be aware that anything about the room has changed.

There's nothing in there but the shell of a body she's retreated into, and the threatening, reaching figure she had created on the wall.