Gone. It was all gone: the house, the car, the television, even her KitchenAid mixer. He was gone, too -of course. He’d taken everything. The only things he’d left behind were her sweet, innocent halves-of-him. She looked over at them fondly; sleeping so obliviously, so trustingly.
She ran a tired hand through her tangled, fried hair. It was really suffering from the cheap “shampoo” she had been using: watered-down hotel-labeled body wash. She’d just used up the last of the last of what could still be called suds, and had tossed it across the hole-ridden floor in a fit of depression. It sat spinning slowly, emptily.
It stopped; it pointed. The dim night light caught a glint just beyond it: a reflected surface mirroring shadows from a crack in the crumbled bathroom wall. Desperately curious, she crawled toward it. She pawed at the wall, dislodging bits of drywall, paint, wallpaper, and linoleum. They dusted onto and around the brushed metal cover of her possible treasure, or a possible hidden stash of contraband items.
But, no! it was treasure. It was an old steel cash box, stuffed to the brim with various bills. She hugged it, covering her old t-shirt and shorts in wall detritus; crying.