This kitchen, where I have never cooked for anyone but myself.
Lying here on the floor, corpse-like, I can feel spiky crumbs sticking to the bare backs of my arms, my buttocks, my thighs, my heels.
It is cold. I wish I were a corpse. Not long, not long now.
All of the empty vodka bottles are in my sight line, dropped on the floor when they were finished.
I ought to feel ashamed that someone will find the place in this state, but I feel nothing.
Eventually my body will be removed and industrial cleaners will be dispatched, I suppose.
The flat will be re-let. I hope the new tenants will be happy here,
leave some traces of love in the walls and the floors and the gaps around the windows for the next inhabitants.
I have left nothing. I was never here. I don’t know how long I have been lying like this.
I don’t recall how I ended up on the floor of the kitchen, or why I am naked.
I reach for the bottle beside me, anxious about how much remains, instantly relieved at its heaviness.
This is the last one, however. When this bottle is done, I have two choices:
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색