My unhappiness grips like a vice. It’s a tangible object, a constant pressure on my skin. I can feel the pressure from it, tighter and tighter. The unshed tears behind my eyes swell and the pressure threatens to make my head burst. My skin and my smiling family are warmed by the watery sun but inside, inside I am dark and dank and frozen in salty gloom.
Sun streams straight and relentless through the dirty windows. Uncaring.
I look at the dirt, of course I do, of course I do. Another thing to do, another item onto the weighted list.
It all gets heavier and heavier, dragging me down. I dream, repeatedly, of walking over the wild haired fields to the chrome water. Of a breath, of a breath, a breath and then of an unbreath. Of empty mirrors.
All of this is happening, it is happening now and now feels like inevitable forever; the pressure, the unbalance from the weight of the tears, the sense of it all, the dirtiness and the dankness and the remorseless of it, and like a tonic I look under the sink. My only hope is, as ever bleach. I look at the ropes in my garage, the pills in my medicine cabinet and – most longingly – at the bleach underneath my sink and Mrs Gin returns cheerful from Quality Save with a new Zoflora, Zoflora Apple Orchard. Immediately, and also I think reluctantly, I am drawn back from the edge. I can’t do it not alone.
I smell the bottle, and then I clean.
This time, this bad time, we’ve gone for Zoflora Apple Orchard
What can I say? I love this one. Ms Tonic, the co-author of Bleach and Tonic and the inspiration for the site, hates it. She says it smells rotten.
I like it, though. Perhaps the sense of rottenness appeals to me, or perhaps as I gazed longingly at the ominous warnings on the domestos bottle and quickly turned away as Mrs Gin came home, I like knowing, in my heart of broken hearts really, really knowing that the salvation it gave me is only fleeting.
I think I’ll end this here, now.