Weak. It's a cold day. A long cold, windy day. It rains. The dry soil turns to mud, sticking hard to everything. The cold raindrops beat down on the tin roof. The eaves creak in the strong gale. The dog shies under a table from the howls of the weather. The mother's heart howls with her own pain.

The small room sways and moves, distorted from her eyes. Her maniacal grin, like a mask, only deepens the appearance of her sorrow. For in her, the grief whips like the rain against the roof, unabating, harsh and careless. Once again she lifts the spoon to her nose. One sniff. Two sniffs. The room spins more, like the inner point of a vortex. The spoon falls to the ground. Clang. The glint of the silver is menacing, daring her.

She stands, her young bones creaking as if she were ancient. She sways, and grabs at the table. Too hard. It falls to the ground. It was weak. Too weak to stand, now she must find her way. The mottled light seeps into the room, through the dusty, dirty windowpanes. She does not see it. The spirals of colours draw her in. Spinning, spinning. The mother collapses.

Her chest rises and falls softly. The rain outside now falls almost cautiously. If perhaps the earth would refuse them to land, and blow them away. The mother's lifeless body is thin like a spectre, her hair lays lank around her small white face. It comes, and subsides. Her eyes flutter, and for a moment all she can see is a white light.

"Mama, Mama are you alright?" The child is back now. It'll be wanting food soon. The mother sits slowly, and feels the grief mount with every movement. Her blood seeps with hatred, pain and still love, for the child all at once. After all it is not the child who chooses his father. Her head pounds. The drilling begins, as if councilmen constructing a house.

The woman nods to the child. Gives a light smile, forced and in pain. Turns, slowly as her body will not accept anymore hurt. She sees the white powder on the floor, where it is strewn. She remembers. She feels the fear, the pain and finally the release. The mother's face reddens, as she knows what she has seen.

The child does not understand. He stands, looking up at his mother's face with unquestioning adoration. His small face, lightly tanned from an outdoor life is innocent of what goes on. His small brow crinkles in a frown; even he knows something is wrong. "Mama?" he says in a frightened voice "Are you tired?"

The mother looks at him, unseeingly. Her eyes are bleak and desolate; they move over and past him in one fleeting glance. She shakes her head. Not weak. Not now. Never weak. Must keep going. The thoughts jumble in her corrupted mind. Go on. Not defeated. The child recognises her strength and smiles a smile of purity. He leaves the room.

The dog whimpers. It is forgotten, lying by the doorway. It wants attention. But it is afraid. Afraid of what these humans do in their complicated lives. Or do they live? From what the dog sees they don't. The dog rises, and slinks over to the mother, as she stands wavering like a leaf in the breeze. She sees the dog. Her eyes glare and the hardness of her heart lashes out. The woman kicks the dog hard. Blood oozes from the dog's mussel. It whimpers again, it does not understand this loathing.

The child enters again. The mother stands over the dog, breathing hard. She's realised. Realised it all. But all at once she is free and trapped. Caught in the net, a certain link in the chain. "Mama? What've you done?" The child asks, horrified. The child sits down to cradle the dog in his arms. The dog lashes out, and it is the child who is scared.

The rain falls harder. The echo sounds through the room. The woman sends the child away. Tears streak down his face. He does not understand. The mother looses her patience. Her hand comes down hard on his arm. The large red streak causes more water to fall from his eyes. And the pain of his heart begins. He runs. Escape. Freedom. The woman is startled. Scared all at once of herself.

The silver glints evilly, it catches her eye. Grey meets grey, as she recognises the substance lying in a small almost orderly mound on the floor. She sits, careful not to disturb her divine redemption. She breathes. In and out. In and out. Picks up the spoon. Scrapes up some powder. Lowers her head to it in submission. Breathes, once, twice.

The rain falls softly again. It slows. Tapping lightly on the tin roof now, like syncopated piano piece. The mottled light grows brighter. The clouds are parting. The sun shows his face, but the light is darker than before. The bright day is clouded not in the sky but by foreboding of the woman's heart. There is evil there that has awoken.

She knows, she can see. She won't change. She is trapped. Caged. Barred in. Locked away by her own lack of will.

But she is not weak. Never weak. Strong. Cannot give up. Not now. Not weak. Not now.