each one before I fold it as if they are
the babies we never had.
‘Your jumpers are sorted. Look
even shades of grey co-ordinated.’
I laugh but the sound is an old
woman’s croak. I pick up the T-shirts,
but several of them are stained and
torn. Was it my nails that caught the
threads, my tears that smeared their
pristine whiteness?
I’m sorry.
I throw the damaged clothes in
the bin and the rest into the washing
machine. I choose the correct
temperature and measure the powder.
Just as you taught me.
If you come home now, all will be
as you like it. Wait.
I run back upstairs and collect your
trousers. It will take me hours to remove
the creases, but I can. The task of ironing
at the correct speed, with the right
number of puffs of steam is soothing.
See how much I learnt from you?
I hold up a pair of stone-grey chinos
with the correct creases and smile. I
hang them so the waist band is two
centimetres higher than the bottom
seam. Perfect.
If you come home, you’ll be happy.
By the time I finish restoring your
wardrobe my back aches and the burn
scar on my wrist pulls tight. I sit on
the bed and rub in some cream before
smoothing the sheets and positioning
the pillows. I won’t spoil it. I’ll sleep
on the sofa again, then if you come
home, we can go to bed together, if
you want.Depression
It’s dark in the house. I’m keeping
the curtains closed hoping everyone
will take the hint and leave me alone.
I don’t need them, and I don’t need
sunlight. The table lamps give me
sufficient light to wander from room
to room, searching for a trace of you.
I stare at the interior of our fridge,
then close the door. It’s too much
effort to cook. I order a pizza and wait,
resting my head on the kitchen table.
Your mug still sits there. It’s a
garden of green and black. I poke itRunner-up in the ‘Without’ competition was Lolita Parekh, Harrow, Middlesex, whose story is published on http://www.writers-online.
co.uk. Also shortlisted were: Dominic Bell, Hull, Humberside; Gillian Brown, Peyriac de Mer, France; Celia Jenkins, Trowbridge,
Somerset; Spencer Lawrence, Rudloe, Wiltshire; Jennifer Moore, Ivybridge, Devon; Jenny Morris, Crowborough, East Sussex; Karen
Rodgers, Chard, Somerset; DJ Tyrer, Southend-on-Sea, Essex; Hazel Whitehead, Bishop’s Waltham, Hampshire
SHORT STORY
http://www.writers-online.co.uk NOVEMBER 2019^55with my finger and filaments of white
float to the table. I turn my face away
as my nose twitches and I see the
kitchen sink.
It is overflowing with dirty plates
and half full mugs. Your plate
now buried beneath an unwashed
mountain of filth.
You’d hate it. I hate it, but it’s too
much effort to clean.
The doorbell bleats its two-tone
call. Chosen by you of course. I plan
to change it, but what’s the point.
The young man on the doorstep
flinches and gulps as he hands me
the warm box and hurries away. I
watch him jump on his bike and
speed down the road before I kick the
door closed and turn, glancing in the
hallway mirror.
A haggard ghost looks back with
glazed eyes and rat-tail hair. She is
clutching a pizza box as if it was a
lifeline.
I stagger to the sofa and wrench
off the lid. The smell sickens me. I
shove the box onto the floor where it
collides with another.
I flick on the TV and grab a
cushion pressing it into my empty
stomach, rocking slightly, seeing
colours and shapes on the screen, but
making no sense of anything.
If you came home, you’d be shocked.Acceptance
The house is quiet, you are no longer
here to shout, throw things, slam
doors. And you never will be. You are
never coming home.
I savour the words in my head and
finally understand what your leaving
has done to me. What I have let you
do to me.
I am alone and I smell. The
house smells.
This is not how I want to live
without you.
I walk up the stairs, stripping off
my grimy sweatpants and T-shirt,
dumping them on the floor before
entering the bathroom.
Standing in the shower, washing the
grime of the last few weeks away I setthe water at the perfect temperature
for me. No more red skin. I use the
softest flannel and the floweriest
fragrant soap.
Now you are not coming back I can
do things my way. The room fills with
steam and my stomach reminds me I
haven’t eaten for days.
I wrap myself in the largest towel
and drew a happy face on the mirror.
I’m about to wipe it clean but you are
not coming back.
I find a packet of crumpets in the
freezer and toast them, slathering on
peanut butter and honey, not caring
when it drips. I lick my fingers and
make a cup of tea. Sitting on the back
step to eat it, I breathe in clean fresh air.It’s time to change.
I fill six bags with rubbish. Some of
it mine, but most of it yours. You are
not coming back so you don’t need it.
Your clothes are neatly folded, in
boxes by the front door. Waiting to
be collected for the homeless shelter.
I smile.
I can imagine your disgust at the
thought, you’d be so angry. A shudder
travels up my spine and I rub the tiny
round scars on my inner arms.
I walk into the lounge. The shelves
are empty. Your collection of model
cars is in a bag hanging off the fence
waiting for the two boys who live next
door to come home from school. Those
noisy children you hated, those children
whose ball you punctured when it dared
to land on your pristine grass.
The ugly china dogs you inherited
from your mother. They too are in a box.
Tomorrow I’ll take them, your music
collection, your magazines and books
to the charity shop in the high street.
Everything else is going to the dump.
Apart from your mug and the plate
from which you ate your last meal.
They are on the kitchen table.
I pick them up and roll them in a
towel. The wooden rolling pin, which
my ribs know too well, smashes the
evidence to dust. I dump the towel in
the last bin bag.
Without you I can live.