The Home
They are all here, even the ones with bad breath and greasy hair that never come. They think I’m moving out today. I tried to speak but all that comes out is a pleghmy gargle. I’ve had a bit of vodka, though, this morning. I needed it. At my age who notices? It will make the pain better.
Martha is here bossing everyone about as usual. Picking up my ornaments and turning them over to see if they are worth flogging. Then comes and pats my arm and call me “her” and “she” whenever she speaks. “She looks cold,” “she looks pleased,” “ahhh, I think she’s smiling.” I feel like the family cat about to be put down.
I’ve lived in this house for sixty years. I brought up their mothers and fathers in this house. Now I have to sit day after day, the smell of myself rising up through the chair that I sit in. They think they hide their repulsed flinches as they bend in to kiss my old flesh. They think they can catch death by being near me. I see it. I can’t speak but I can see.
“She will want those,” Martha says, “because Bob made them for her.” I smiled at that, which they took as my agreement. They didn’t know how Bob had gone through every woman in the neighborhood. He could be a bit handy with his fists too when the urge took him.
They are like tramps rummaging through bins, their cold eyes resting on my jewelry. I’m not going anywhere. One for the road, nice cup of tea before we go, they always say. I couldn’t have done it on my own, it wouldn’t be nice. I don’t want to be on my own when I die. Sounds silly, really. But you hear such stories about smells, and cats. Not for me. This lot of bastards never visits me unless it’s worth their while. So they might as well make themselves useful for once.
Martha’s fussing about again. She’s got her hands on my silk wraps. They are from Tokyo, handmade, but it’s wasted on her.
“Oh, look at these, Chinese things,” she is saying, told you, Tesco’s more her style.
“Now dear, how about a nice cup of tea. Before we go,” Martha says. Predictable Martha. I got the poison last week from the rat trap. It took ages to crush it up. I’m not leaving. I told them that ages ago but they just said “yes” and arranged the home anyway.
I soaked the tea bags in the rat poison first. Martha is always going on about marinades so she’ll appreciate it. I hope it works. I put some in the biscuits too.
They are all going to have a cup of tea. How did they get so fat? They are shoveling my biscuits in their mouths like they’ve never eaten. It was going to be just for me but looks like I’m sharing again. I brought up their fathers and mothers in this house. So it’s nice that we’ll all be here at the end. They never buy coffee. I always hated tea. They insist on buying it. Tastes like poison anyway.
