Unmade Beds
1/1
Marie’s bed is unmade. The duvet’s trailing on the floor and the sheets are ill-fitting and mismatched. But to Marie, it’s perfect. To Marie, it’s her safest haven.
Several tissues, used and crumpled, are littered across the mattress. Remainders of nights Marie’s spent crying, eyes and nose both streaming. Marie daren’t throw them away though. For if she were to bawl again, she’d have nothing to dry her eyes on. The sheets already stained from previous attempts of using it as a tissue.
Along with the stains of dry tears, there are some loose threads. Marie picks at the fabric while she’s curled up, crying. The cream material gathered in the centre of the bed wearing thin, holes beginning to appear. Marie doesn’t change her sheets. She merely kicks them off once they become too dirty, too stained.
A book lays across the pillows. It looks old and well read. It’s open at a page near the middle, the pages splayed as it is laid spine up. The cover so faded that the title is hard to make out. It’s Marie’s favourite book. She’s read it so many times; she practically knows it off by heart, word for word.
Some clothes are scattered on the floor nearby, tangled with the sheets. Marie doesn’t bother hanging anything up or putting anything away. It’s not like anyone is in her room to see the mess they create. Marie hardly changes her clothes, anyway, so it wouldn’t matter if her clothes were clean or not. She wears her pyjamas. She doesn’t leave her room, so she doesn’t see the point in changing.
Marie’s bed is unmade. Marie isn’t going to make it.
Several tissues, used and crumpled, are littered across the mattress. Remainders of nights Marie’s spent crying, eyes and nose both streaming. Marie daren’t throw them away though. For if she were to bawl again, she’d have nothing to dry her eyes on. The sheets already stained from previous attempts of using it as a tissue.
Along with the stains of dry tears, there are some loose threads. Marie picks at the fabric while she’s curled up, crying. The cream material gathered in the centre of the bed wearing thin, holes beginning to appear. Marie doesn’t change her sheets. She merely kicks them off once they become too dirty, too stained.
A book lays across the pillows. It looks old and well read. It’s open at a page near the middle, the pages splayed as it is laid spine up. The cover so faded that the title is hard to make out. It’s Marie’s favourite book. She’s read it so many times; she practically knows it off by heart, word for word.
Some clothes are scattered on the floor nearby, tangled with the sheets. Marie doesn’t bother hanging anything up or putting anything away. It’s not like anyone is in her room to see the mess they create. Marie hardly changes her clothes, anyway, so it wouldn’t matter if her clothes were clean or not. She wears her pyjamas. She doesn’t leave her room, so she doesn’t see the point in changing.
Marie’s bed is unmade. Marie isn’t going to make it.