4 -

A dirt track... forgotten morals and chilly mornings.

Here we’ve ended up, and I’ve had enough. Life here has been hollowed out, like a tree rotting from within but still standing through sheer stubbornness. His mother’s been whining for weeks about scrubbing floors.

Every few hours it happens, and another floor is left bare, and that in the middle of winter. As if the house is a place to cry, the damp, the mould, the cracks and holes and the legion of spiders.
It’s another winter that seems to never end. I thought the temperature on Earth would rise, but the opposite is true. The cold creeps into your bones, and it’s already the end of April. A new ice age is coming, the newspaper said. And while the world freezes, the war rages on happily. As if humanity wants to wipe itself out even faster, and Father Frost can’t do it alone.

“Winter will decide who wins,” I heard the neighbour say to the butcher. His voice sounded almost cheerful, as if he were talking about a soccer match. He looked up in alarm when I stopped to pull up a stocking. My fingers feel like icicles, and those stockings, worn out, with holes at the toes, are guaranteed to give me chilblains. I hate those old rags.

The promise of a better life never came true. When we came here, we thought it was temporary. A stopover. But life has no stopovers, only destinations you never chose. And the love—if there was any—has faded. I can hardly remember why I ever wanted to know who I would be with him around. Now all I know is that I have lost myself.

My eyes grow duller by the day, and I’d rather keep them shut than see the bailiff with the police, who’ll surely cave again, forcing us to keep working like slaves in Peterson’s shop. Grateful for the scraps he tosses us out of “the goodness of his heart,” because we have nowhere else to go.

He has plenty of money. I saw him counting it. Thick wads of cash were pulled from under the counter where customers couldn’t see. His fingers moved greedily, his eyes glittering with avarice. But to us, he plays the pauper. “Times are hard,” he says, with that pitiful look. Because playing the victim, milking sympathy—that’s how he gets what he wants. How he keeps us small.

“It’s snowing!” the child suddenly cheers. Her voice sounds shrill. I look outside at how the ugly world is covered by a white blanket, softer than down. For a moment, everything looks clean. Innocent. As if the snow can cover all the rottenness.

What if I leave now? Just walk out the door and leave this mess behind? Would anyone notice? He keeps talking, endlessly, about things that don’t matter. About the price of coal, about the neighbour who doesn’t pay his debts. As if words fill the void. As if I ever want to go back to that house.”

I am who I am. It doesn’t matter if he comes looking for me or ignores that I’m gone. I’m not afraid of him. He’ll keep up appearances, like he always does. Pretend that nothing is wrong. As if it’s normal for people to disappear like snow in the sun. “She’ll come back,” is what he’ll say.

The child is now whining that it wants to go. It pulls at my sleeve, but I don’t have the energy to respond. I make a half-hearted gesture, but she doesn’t stop. From the corner of my eye, I see that the officer has had enough. His face is indifferent, but he irritably taps his notebook with a pencil. It speaks volumes…

“Janes, are you coming?” his mother calls. Her voice squeaks. “How are we going to move all this to our new house? It will be much nicer than where we have lived up until now.”

She sounds desperate. As if she is not just talking to Johannes, but to herself. She completely ignores me.

I look at the stuff we have piled up outside in our haste. A chest, a few chairs, bedding, tubs, buckets and brooms. As if we can drag all that around. I hand out the last sandwiches and wait with my eyes closed. When I have counted to a hundred, I wake up, and it all turns out to be a bad dream, although I have to admit that an eviction could be the solution.

“I have a child,” Janes moans, “you can’t do that.”

Everything has a beginning and an end, the eviction is a fact. …

_{8.5.25
Painting: Sat ud (1892) - oil painting - public domain
Painter: Erik Henningsen
The contest Art & Writing is hosted by @solperez
@almaguer 3 - Desalojo}