It is the first week of January, on a Wednesday. My alarm clock goes off at 6:30am. I don’t bother to turn on the lights. I put on my slippers and walk down the hallway. My feet are wet, cold and wet. I turn on a light. The carpet is soaked. What the heck? I stamp on the carpet; it makes a squishy sound as my slippers soak up more water. Oh crap.
The hallway is flooded half-way and the living room is completely flooded. Water is pooled around both the front and back doors. And the kitchen, its tiles are covered in sludge and old leaves. I am stunned, what are these worms doing on the floor? What are these little black beetles doing crawling about? Never mind what; why, why are they are the floor? I have been flooded – again.
Huge areas of the region have been heavily flooded, yet again by a winter rainstorm. In comparison I have been spared, I don’t have too much damage. For three weeks, I live with the carpet and its underlay torn up and rolled back, waiting for an insurance agent to give an assessment.
I find more bugs, dead ones, enmeshed in fibres of the carpet. The stench from the decomposing bug carcasses and rotting overlay pervades my nostrils; despite my efforts to deodorize the mouldy carpet with various homemade solutions it is all I can smell from morning until night. At meal times, I stare at the bundle of decaying material and chew my food slowly. The reek of the carpet gets into my mouth and saturates every bite I take; I lose my appetite.
I don’t keep or store many things on the floor anymore; they are kept in plastic containers.
YOU ARE READING
Speaking in Mirrors
Short StoryIllustrated short stories. Seeking connections, a glimpse or a sigh; stale hotdogs and greasy beef jerky; reincarnation and landfills; King for the day; whiskey, lacquered hair and keeping happiness – tall tales of a small city.
