The suitcase looks a forlorn shadow of its former self under that bare fluorescent lamp. Placed as it is, spreadeagled on the bed; a brittle, faded burgandy husk surrounding a very specific volume of emptiness. The journey to this room came at the cost of deep scars, unwanted labels and unthinkable tattoos for us both. I gently breathe in years of worldly dust, savouring the mixture of dirt and other people’s skin. Unsatisfied with the sombre musk, I part my lips and sharply inhale the surrounding otherworldly expectations, a momentary high that I’m sure now to choke on. Whose grandfather even thought to fly from fucking Croydon anyway?
Maybe this isn’t right after all – maybe she was wrong. I mean, who spends two full hours staring at a misshapen chasm trying to decide if it’s more important to pack Catherine Wheels or a vibrator. Did anyone ever say you have to choose between liquorice and orgasms? Between pieces of yourself? Yet here I am.
The garish alarm clock in the corner gives off an eerie jade glow I haven’t seen since childhood, casting an anemic hue on my trembling right hand. Suddenly weakened, I balance this sickly chimeric body on the edge of the bed. Barely aware that I’m rocking slowly back and forth, and no matter how softly I brush my bare arm against the case, a shock of repellant pain rushes over me with each cycle. A volatile warning that time is decompressing, that the void will be sated one way or the other. Waves of nausea pulsate through my body as I frantically try to think through lists and add up the numbers but it all blurs into the glorious red velvet lining that still longs for caresses. Maybe I should stuff the damned thing with toilet paper and cinnamon altoids, take a shower and be done with it.
I have forgotten my destination anyway, who would ever know.
(c) Accidental Tentacles 2017