Misery

            She felt miserable.

            The kind of miserable that sucks all the life out of your arms, so that they just hang at your sides, waiting for a breeze to move them. The kind of miserable that makes your head feel as if  it weighs a hundred and sixteen pounds.

            The kind of miserable which drives you back into bed, burrowed beneath the covers, hiding from even the small shard of light.

           

            She felt miserable. No hope, no health, no heat and most certainly, no heart.

            She felt the misery of self, of heart and the misery of a lost soul.