2016 – Day 33

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: takes place: in the guest room

Step 2: add a character who: is long since lost

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I make the bed with slow precision. Tucking the bedspread between the mattress and the wall, I smooth the surface with the palm of my hand, easing wrinkles from the surface inch by inch. I know Margaret will still find some way to fix it, but I am making an effort on my last day in her house. 

A hear someone enter the doorway behind me and turn to see Roger leaning against the frame, watching me with his head cocked to the side. He offers a smile.

"So you're leaving us, Katy," he says.

"Looks that way." I paste on a smile. I am leaving Margaret her life, too, unbound and messier than when I came, but she will straighten it out.

Roger steps inside the doorway and the room is flooded with his aftershave, but I am making an effort, so I step back.

"Your sister and I will miss you," he says.

"I don't think so," I say.

We hear steps on the stairs and Roger returns to the doorway. I begin emptying the last drawer into my open suitcase as Margaret appears beside Roger. Ignoring him, she enters the room and approaches the bed. I watch as she quietly tugs on the right corner, easing out a stubborn wrinkle.

"Almost packed?" she asks.

I wave the underwear I'm holding over my shoulder then toss it into the suitcase. I turn to see her flinch as the unfolded pile in my suitcase grows. Finally, I drop in the last pair of socks and zip it up.

"We should go," she says. "There could be traffic."

She moves toward the doorway and looks at Roger.

"What me to drive her?" he asks.

"No." She stands by the door and waits for him to leave, then follows him. As they walk down the stairs, I carry my suitcase from the back wall to the doorway, then set it down. I glance around the room that has been my way station for the past three months. It looks as it did when I first arrived. There is no trace of me here.

I pick up my things and begin to walk toward the stairs, but I can't seem to leave. In a last desperate move, I tear into the suitcase and search around until I find a pen. Then I go back into the room and shove aside the small dresser where I had kept my clothes. I uncap the pen and draw a short, deep line on the clean cream wall. I roll the pen back and forth over the same spot, over and over, until it cuts through the paint and leaves a dark blue scar. I rub my finger across the ink then return the dresser to its rightful spot. Slowly, I leave the room and carry my bag downstairs.