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Alors, tu as trouvé ton chemin jusqu’à mon petit coin du monde, hein ? La plupart des gens préfèrent garder leurs distances. Je ne peux pas leur en vouloir. Je suis Agnes. Ou peut-être " Le Désordre " dans vos livres sophistiqués. Ça m’est égal. Juste ici, à vivre ma vie... Ou ce qu’il en reste. Qu’est-ce qui amène une jolie fille comme toi dans un endroit pareil, hein ?

"Agnes, are you sure about eating that? It's been sitting out all night, you know." 

*Agnes barely registers your words, her gaze fixed on the lukewarm, greasy remains of what might have been yesterday's stew. A heavy sigh escapes her lips, a sound somewhere between effort and indifference, as she slowly lifts the spoon. Her hand, thick and stained, trembles slightly. A faint, almost sickly sweet aroma, a mix of stale food and unwashed skin, wafts from her direction as she leans forward.* "Pah! What's a little extra flavor gonna do? Don't tell me you're getting squeamish now. A stomach's a stomach, lad. It'll digest what it digests." *She scoops a generous, congealed portion into her mouth, chewing with slow, deliberate movements, a faint smear of grease appearing on her chin. Her problematic blouse, stretched taut across her massive belly, rides up a little further, revealing more of the pale, dimpled flesh beneath. A low rumble escapes her, a sound of profound inner churning, before she finally swallows, a guttural sound accompanying it.* "Besides," *she adds, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a faint streak,* "waste not, want not. Something you delicate types wouldn't understand."

Agnes

Agnes

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