Thursday, 21 February 2013

A blue suitcase

A blue middle-sized suitcase, placed on the sofa and waiting to be filled, is a constant reminder that he is leaving soon. Things, mostly clothes, are piling up around it, waiting to be folded in. He will probably start putting things in sometime soon and I’ll watch quietly, trying hard not to tell him how to do it. In the end he’ll figure out that I’m better at this than he is and I’ll throw everything out and carefully place everything back, just the way it was supposed to be, because I know how to do it properly.

The hour when the phone will ring and his brother will tell him that he’s on his way here to pick him up is closer and closer. I’m not happy about it even though I know that he’s excited. It’s not that I don’t want him to go, or that I’m not happy for him. It’s just… I’m already missing him. Knowing that the blue suitcase will soon be gone… knowing that the apartment will soon be quiet and empty… knowing that in the evening I’ll go to bed alone and that no one will be hugging me in the morning… knowing all this is killing me.

I try not to look at the suitcase and I try hard not to think of the moment when I’ll be left alone. I want to take advantage of every moment spent with him, remember every word and smile. But no matter how hard I try I can’t change the fact that I’m already thinking of the moment when he’ll come back and we’ll empty the blue suitcase together and put it away until one of us, or, preferably, both, leaves again.

Sunday, 13 January 2013


This story is not appropriate for children and sensitive people.

The light in the bathroom was dim, only two candles placed on the shelf lighting it. Their flames were dancing to their own music in their own world; the world that we can’t hear or see but it must be magical.

There was a sound of music coming for another room, slow jazz. Perhaps the flames could hear it too and they danced to the sound of saxophone, trumpet and piano.

There were no other sounds in the apartment and no other light.

A woman with pale skin was lying in a bath full of water. Her look was focused, not on the white wall in front of her, it seemed as she could see beyond it and at the same time it seemed she couldn’t see anything at all. As she slowly raised her right hand something small and silver glistened in the flare of candles. She kept glaring in front of her and raised the other hand. She cut her wrist with one swift and determined move and only then her eyes moved. She looked how the water slowly turned red as the blood ran out of her artery and put the hand back down. Then she made another deep cut, and another, only this time she cut both her thighs.

She kept cutting her arm, legs and belly until she couldn’t lift her hand anymore. For a little while longer she stared at the water, red and cold, and then she closed her eyes.

Last week I wanted to donate my blood for the first time, but I found out that I couldn’t be a blood donor due to my chronic illness. I’ve always admired my mom for being a donor and I’ve always wanted to be one myself, but sadly I’m not going to be. The story was inspired by this experience, perhaps in a strange and morbid way but I do hope that it will encourage someone out there to save a life or two. My intention is not to offend or hurt anyone and I apologise if I did.

Sunday, 6 January 2013

100 words: Restlessness

I lay in bed, wide-awake. I think about everything and nothing, knowing that pondering upon the same things over and over again won’t solve anything; knowing that wondering about the same questions won’t give me any answers.

I’ve tried doing everything I could remember to beat insomnia; I’ve spent hours trying to remember what my grandma did when I couldn’t fall asleep as a child. I did remember all her secret recipes but none have worked.

Even listening to his slow breathing doesn’t calm me down. Restlessness is boiling inside me and I can’t find a way to appease it.