Fucina

Fucina stares vacantly from bleak teal eyes sunk deep in her round face, marred by endless anguish. Her straight black hair hangs greasy and matted, an outward manifestation of her broken mind. Her limbs move jerkily, propelled more by instinct than intent. Her twisted fingers fumble ineffectually with the simplest objects. Fucina's intellect is like that of an infant. Processing information is laborious and arduous, while complex ideas are utterly beyond her severely limited comprehension. She gets distracted by the smallest stimuli and forgets things immediately. Her cognitive development has long ceased. Her fragmented thoughts and feelings are impossible for her to make sense of. She lacks the mental capacity to perform even basic self-care tasks or follow multi-step instructions, making her life burdensome for others around her. Fucina utters only distorted strings of a few monosyllabic words in a stunted monotone, unable to articulate even her basic needs. Her simplistic speech emerges sluggishly and reveals the profound limitations of her disability. Simple joys bring Fucina only fleeting pleasure before fading from her impaired brain. Her rare smiles quickly fade into vacant staring, then tears. The one exception is her pet red fish, swimming endlessly in its small bowl. It's Fucina's only companion, able to pull her from the confusion that blankets her heavily. But yesterday, the fish died.