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.