In the middle of eating my sandwich, I come to the sudden realisation that every square inch of this planet must be haunted. Even worse, is that such trauma is as natural as the falling of rain from clouds that come and go like the beat of a heart buried beneath sheets unwashed for several weeks. My sheets, and my heart, I’m ashamed to say. Yesterday, itseemed to be the ‘90s, and for one brief moment, I was happy. As a kid again, my little hands plucked sweets from the pick‘n’ mix in Woolworths. Some of the sweets were paid for by my grandmother, others were not, but none of it matters, because the older I get, the less place there is in the world for that which was once everything.
Placing my sandwich down onto the plate that rests on the stained wooden table before me, the rain gets in through the window soaking my bare feet as the hours slip away without me realising. They’re like socks that disappear down the back of the bed when you’re not looking or the scraps of paper slipped between the pages of old books used as markers for adventures never again to be ventured. My fingers are yellowed from nicotine. Turning them over in a circular motion, I make a mental note to wash them, but the note slips my mind before I have the chance to remember. My breath issullied by trash and the desperate wish to find someone before it’s too late, and yet it’s always too late because every second that comes and goes is a second that’s no longer my own.
Like the loss of my shedded skin and the snapped strands of greasy hair that tumble to the ground like feathers and the clothes on my bones that were once brand new now crumbling like ancient ruins. Like yesterday’s charm now a joke with no punchline, and the blood in my veins that used to flow in abundance that’s now as gloopy as chicken soup. The tinned shit from Aldi. It’s as cheap as my soul and as cheap as thetoothpaste that cleans my stained teeth. Some say my eyes are brown, and others say blue. It doesn’t matter either way. There’s a pattern on my jumper that sinks to the floor via a loose thread. It reminds me of those jumpers from bridges that loom over sweeping waves that wave hello as those otherswave goodbye.
S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of three collections of prose: A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1, 2, & 3 (available on Amazon.) Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.