copyright 2015 Chris Smith All rights reserved.
We were running out of time. It was just a matter of days before we got served for Eviction at the final house on Parcel B, the Main House, the house we were all now living in. It was the last house we had to live in on the Farm. There were no other houses to move into after this one. This house was our last stand. It was the last opportunity we had to turn everything around.
But for now, I what I really needed to resolve was a bed of some kind to sleep on. There was only one mattress I could use. It was really the best choice on a list of bad choices. Whatever I picked as my bed, I would have to drag up the narrow stairs that lead from the downstairs to the upstairs. The width of the stairwell was probably only three feet across.
The bed I chose was a nasty mattress. It had been mine before I got a new one. I had moved it over to the Main House to be used as a guest mattress. It had been pretty new....once upon a time. But Mom had ruined it by putting all her hoarding shit on it, along with the nice mice droppings and god knows what else was on it. I tried not to think about it. It looked disgusting. I barely wanted to touch the thing! But it was either use that, or use the floor, and the floor was really hard.
I hated my pitiful existence that I could now call my very own. I wanted to scream at everything that was going on. I wanted to scream that I had been forced out of my home and now had to drag a nasty mattress up the shitty stairs in the shitty house to sleep on. I wanted to scream at everything and everyone.
But I didn't. So I swallowed it. And what I couldn't swallow, I chewed on, even the soft parts of myself. And what I couldn't swallow or chew on, I wrote down when time and energy permitted.
Tonight though, tonight I needed sleep. I needed all the energy I could muster in order to deal with what had become my life. I had to survive this. I had to find a way through, even the most unbearable moments. I was a survivor. No matter what. It was either survive it, or perish. And I refused to perish though every day I fought with the part of me that wanted to slip so desperately away.
Luckily I had sheets for the nasty bed, no mattress pad, but sheets. So I doubled up on sheets, to have them act as some sort of barrier between me and God knows what was lurking on the mattress. I didn't trust it. But, I didn't have anything else to sleep on.
There was only one working bathroom in the whole house, the master bathroom, which was downstairs across from the master bedroom. The toilet worked, and both of the side-by-side sinks worked, but not the shower or tub. The upstairs bathroom, next to my new glorious room was iffy at best, and the half bath downstairs was non-existent.
After our makeshift dinner the day was coming to an end. I needed to bathe in the worst way. I felt dirty and yuckie from the stress of the last minute move. And though the water was working, the hot water heater wasn't. It was going to be a very cold bathing experience. So I gathered my toiletries together along with a towel and made my way to the master bathroom.
Tonight, I'd have to settle for a whore's bath. It was a make-shift bath where you only washed the main areas of the body [groin, arm pits, feet, face] using minimal amounts of soap [if you had it] and water. In extreme cases you did without water and used a baby wipe, if you had them. My Mom was doing the dinner dishes while my Dad brushed his teeth in one sink. I moved to the far sink no one was using.
I pulled out my soap and set it by the sink. I took off my socks and washed my feet first. Then I took off my shirt, bra, and with a soapy washcloth, washed my torso, back, neck, face, armpits, arms, and hands. I rinsed off the soap, hoping the stress would wash away as well. I had already cleaned my groin area with a baby wipe earlier.
While I bathed, I looked in the mirror. We made such an odd trio in the bathroom. A unique photo it would have been if anyone had thought about a camera. Dad made a face with his eyes at the fact that I was bathing right there, half naked, while he was brushing his teeth.
But I didn't care. There comes a point where you just don't care anymore. I'd lost all modesty. I was so tired, physically and emotionally spent, I didn't care who saw me naked or what they might think. Besides I was too busy trying to mop up my bloody soul.
"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."
Irish Author, Theatrical Producer, Presenter
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A TASTE OF DESTRUCTION Book 1 (EDITING) is the juice worth the squeeze seriesNon-Fiction
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