She tried to gasp, to drag some air into her desperate lungs. She was drowning in a dream. Always on the verge of her next breath but never being able to achieve it.
Like standing on tip toe on a dangerous precipice falling neither forward nor back, teetering.
How long has she been in this despairing state?
Surrounded by blackness, unable to move, to draw life-giving breath, to scream and beg for help.
But she could hear.
She was patently aware of her friends around her speaking in hushed, frantic voices. Concern and fear laced their words but they couldn't end her entrapment.
She could feel them as they moved her from the kitchen floor to the bed where they tended her, where they'd sobbed over the death of one so young, so sweet, so beautiful.
They spoke of her kindness, her kinship with living things and the cruelty of fate.
She felt them move her outside and lay her on a cushion, soft, lush - nothing but the best for their their beloved friend.
She heard the terrible click of the coffin as they enshrined her there on the hill, under the open arms of the huge tree. It just didn't seem right to put her in the ground.
She lay entombed not just by glass and wood but in her own flesh and bones. Immobile, without warmth or breath to betray that she lived. Silently, endlessly suffocating.
She had all the time in the world for regrets.
To bitterly regret her kindness to the old peddler woman. Still more to regret the shiny, mesmerising red apple, the crunchy bite that was her undoing.