Isis plops down on to the cot within her small place.   A mere shack thrown together with items scavenger.    A weather beat up old trunk served not only as a storage, but as a make shift night table.   On top is a lantern,  the wick burns fueled by a reservoir of oil.    The small flame flickered casting a dancing shadow upon the walls surrounding.   Across from the cot,  a book case of a hard plastic.  One of the legs, the right front one is missing.   A rock  is wedged to keep the book case level and from falling.   Leaving it slightly off center.    A half dozen so books are  on it.    All of them with severe yellowing of the pages.   The spines no longer holding the pages together.   Books from a time long past.   Before the world had gone to chaos.<br/><br/>Bringing her hands to her head.  Lightly rubs her temples.    The weight of sleep heavy.   Yet still sitting up on her cot.   The fight to stay awake is just beginning.   One she will lose, she lost it every night.    Most nights she is blank.   That is not what she fears.   It is those rare nights when she dreams the night mares come.   Brief glimpses of horrors that she has witness.   An each time she is left with the feeling she is the cause of such horrors.<br/><br/>Slowly the lethargy of sleep comes.   For finally she falls back and to the side onto her cot.   Her legs stretch out onto the cot.   Her breathing steadies.    As the tendrils of slumber take hold.   The flickering flame of the lantern plays it shadows cross her form.  Slowly through left unattended it weakens and the finally dies.    Leaving the small private world of hers in darkness.   Her own private place for her own personal purgatory.