Sarah
As she entered the dingy little house,
Sarah regarded Ethel and Charles.
They were where they always were,
each sat, slumped, torpid
in their own well-worn armchair,
staring vacantly at the telly.
Neither acknowledges her arrival,
and she did not announce it,
the pleasantries were redundant,
all three knew their roles.
Everything was, as always.
The closed curtains were worn, thin,
allowing a pattern of light
to pool on the brown carpet.
The room was hot, stuffy,
and had its own odious whiff;
a mixture of stale urine
sweat, and decay.
She gagged as she entered,
because of the stench,
and because
of the anticipation of what came next.
Changing their diapers,
bathing them
while ignoring
the obvious pleasure
it gave Charles.
Sarah had been 'bathing' Charles
since she was eleven,
Ethel knew, of course,
but pretended she didn't.
Later;
she would prepare their dinner.
Sarah had stopped eating with them.
She told herself
she was too tired to eat
that dealing with her parents' mess
made her sick.
The truth was
Sarah increasingly found it soothing
not to eat,
it gave her almost as much comfort
as the marks she made
with the knife
that she kept with her,
always.
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