can't stand the shape of my self

Faint recollections, she has: of the motions she used to make as she exfoliated her forearms and her calves, as she cast off dead skin in an ever-evolving shell. Also, the gravity of her head and its hairs betwixt the brush, pulled down and released.

Clasping necklaces. Tightening garters.

She's not got any of that, now. Just flexing finger joints and wondering what it does, or should, mean if one of them should, or does, crack.

Please, anybody, is there a doctor in the house?

Linada, somehow sympathetic, shows Fiora how to stretch; how to exercise the idea of herself.