One
dark blue suitcase, tattered and worn, little wheel broken off,
bulging sides crushing clothing hurriedly stuffed inside. A beige
trench coat, slung over the suitcase, belt missing and two buttons
pulled off leaving hanging threads. A second smaller suitcase added
to the pile, heavier than the first, containing not clothes but some
of the few remaining unbroken things from the flat – some books,
her hairdryer, Grandma's watch saved by being hidden in a sock,
candles, DVDs she doesn't watch, Phil Collins CD.
One
woman preparing to flee. No make-up or perfume, even though those
wouldn't make her a fucking tart. Clothes from charity shops, mostly
without stains and from M&S if you find them in the right area.
Shoes from before she met him, comfy but heels worn too far to repair
now. Sunglasses to hide the night before. Ditto scarf knotted high
at her throat.
One
last look at home, a half laugh accompanying the simple name of her
prison. A sheet of paper, tented on the kitchen table, reading “I
won't be back. Don't try to find me.” The note retrieved and
stuffed in a pocket.
One
trench coat put on. Two suitcases picked up. One door pulled to.
Three flights of stairs. One car ride to a new life.
No comments:
Post a Comment