Stained Curtains

[Selected as a runner-up winner in Oxford Public Library’s annual short story competition. Published in an ebook collection: November 2021.]

The pen clinked gently upon the well-worn desk as she scanned the room. The midday sun was shining weakly through the sad and droopy stained drapes, thick enough to make the room appear as if in the light of dusk. She used to wonder how they had become stained. She used to wonder a lot of things. Now, she mostly wondered if she would keep living. 

An invisible force weighed upon her shoulders, the burden of a life filled with nothing. Dull brown hair, thick with grease, fell around her face as her gaze rested on her toes, tightly gripping the long strands of the filthy rug. At least its dusty grey color disguised months of crumbs and grime. If only the illusion of cleanliness could somehow spread throughout the rest of the apartment.

Takeout boxes littered the floor, mostly from the Golden Dragon. Many of those boxes were stained; she could almost taste the sticky sauce as her mouth filled with saliva. Food was rarely on her mind, but there was something about that cashew chicken––it called to her with the voice of sirens. What Philip must think of her? Two or three times a week, she buzzed him up to her door for their ritualistic exchange: outstretched arms, the transfer of a red-lettered white plastic bag, a tantalizing sweetness filling the space between them, an expression of gratitude, a parting. He alone had a front-row seat to the tragedy of her spiraling existence. 

No amount of deep breathing could release her from the tightly wound knot that had taken up residence in her chest. Upon registering a nagging thirst, she abruptly stood and moved past a small mountain of glass bottles, the most prominent fixture in the room, as she entered her filthy kitchen. 

There were no clean cups. Nothing was clean. Her hair touched molded bits of food as she leaned under the flowing faucet for a few gulps. Somewhat satiated, she shuffled back to her desk, grimacing at the chair’s grating squeak.

Every morning she woke sometime after the sun’s rising, ate if she could find food, and proceeded to collect the paper from outside her front door. That paper had quickly become her sole connection to the outside world. God bless Ann, her older neighbor, for her weird obsessive habit of collecting it each morning. The woman never failed to drop one before all four doors on their floor, the third level of a slightly run-down brick building. Upon moving in three years prior, Margaret had tried explaining to Ann that she did not need a newspaper, that no one reads newspapers any longer. That’s all right, dear, was the simple dismissive response, and the newspaper drop continued. So Margaret dutifully collected it from her mat every morning after finishing breakfast. 

In her first years living at 113 Walburg, Margaret would sit in the kitchen and sip her morning tea as gentle sun rays spread across the immaculate table and the daily comics. At 7:50 on the dot, she would leave the paper on the table, clean the mug, and return it to the shelf before descending to the street and catching the bus for work. 

Her feeling of purpose was then at an all-time high. She was energized daily as she oversaw the ambitious group of young professionals under her management. She knew her place, and her place respected her. 

Until it didn’t. 

Or, rather, until it no longer could. 

And now, six months later, she found herself alone and unemployed on a Tuesday afternoon surrounded by her filth and rubbish. At least she could no longer smell herself. It had been a week or two since she became numb to that stench. 

She glanced back to the paper on her desk and closed her eyes, letting out a low moan. How could she have fallen so low? Margaret had not been raised to live in squalor. She was a Markson, for Christ’s sake. Her mother would be mortified and, worse, disappointed. 

Margaret forced her mind to the task before her. She was out of money and there was no way around it. The morning passed as she did her best to make a plan, but in all honesty, she did not expect to find a solution. The first five months of unemployment had been filled with focus and energy, the sort of manic energy akin to a freshly headless chicken. All she had wanted was a job––she wasn’t picky; she needed a respected role with an adequate salary. But after a dozen or so rejections, Margaret realized that nothing was available, not even embarrassing entry-level positions. It was at that point Margaret made a deal with herself: she would starve before she stooped so low as to bag another person’s food. 

Since then, she had drained her savings. Years of dutifully putting aside a portion of her paycheck––wasted. She had been so close to a downpayment for her first home. As she watched her bank account deplete, her bright future slowly faded from her mind until she was left in this despondent place. Her dreams, once easily attainable, were now out of reach. The perfect little white house with the flawlessly manicured lawn had drifted away along with her purpose. And her money. 

As the weeks passed, Margaret felt more and more suffocated until she couldn’t function. Instead of daily submitting resumes, placing cold calls, and assertively requesting interviews, she spent most of her time staring at those damned curtains. Occasionally, she searched online hoping a position had opened. But even then, her mind was empty and wandering. 

Maybe she should end it. Her mom hadn’t called in months. Her supposed friends had left. But most pressing, she had no money, and her rent was due. Her legs ached from the inactivity of constantly sitting, and she couldn’t seem to move the muscles in her cheeks. She simply sat and stared, feeling nothing. Except shame. 

There were no more options. There was nothing to keep her here. She sat in this hovel, day after day, reeking, without a penny to her name. And yet, she clung to this pitiful life. 

Margaret glanced at the mocking blank paper on the table and crumbled it. She held it in her hand and stared at the make-shift ball. If she didn’t want to die, then she should probably try to live. So she stood with a faint, but burning sense of determination.  Mechanically, she moved to the window and threw open those stained curtains. Blinding light flooded onto her sofa and carpet, illuminating the filth. Her face registered no emotion as she took in the room. 

With robotic energy, Margaret trudged into the kitchen and retrieved bags from beneath the sink. She paused and took account of the overwhelming scope of the mess. Mmmh. One thing at a time. She returned to the living room and began collecting items into the bag. She methodically bent down and stood up again and again as she tried to remember the last time she had even attempted to use the trash can. The tangled knot of shame steadily grew as she allowed her situation to sink in. 

Her home had always been a place of pride, a place where she could love and be loved. This small apartment had hosted friends for meals or drinks. Weekends and evenings had seen her living space filled with light and laughter. It was not just a place to live, it was a haven, and she had allowed it to fall into a state of filth and disarray. 

The silence was suffocating as she remembered what once had been. She placed two bags filled with weeks of waste on the back splintered porch. The crisp autumn air overwhelmed her as she drank in the fresh scent of the earth like a parched deer approaching a stream. The stale, rancid air inside was stifling. Leaving the door ajar, Margaret hurried through each filthy room and threw open the windows. She moved through the apartment, tidying and scrubbing as she went, an unstoppable force. 

Every surface was wiped and sanitized; dishes were cleaned and loaded; soiled clothes were in the wash; her bed was made. She paused as she noticed the afternoon light spreading across her thick white comforter. It tickled her in its simple beauty, and the corners of her mouth curved slightly as she allowed herself a moment to soak it in. 

Her mind drifted to late summer mornings spent at the vineyard. Before dad left, the vineyard had been the one place her family could pretend their life was perfect. She would sit at the top of the hill and observe the gentle way the sun kissed the vines’ leaves before the oppressive heat of the day. She would rest in nature’s stillness and plan her future, knowing nothing could hold her back. 

The sun-bathed memories awoke an old nostalgia and anticipation. Her mind felt cleared after hours of cleaning and transforming her home. Margaret stepped into the grimy shower ready to cleanse her body. She let the warm water run over her skin as the bathroom filled with moist air and tiny bubbles as she lathered every surface. Her hands slid over silky skin, free from unwanted hair for the first time in months. With one final rinse, Margaret stepped from the shower a new, very pink woman. 

Exiting from the bathroom into her tidy and immaculate apartment was like returning home after months away. Margaret felt a warmth bloom within her as she gazed at the rooms bathed in the glowing light of the setting sun.  

With the washing machine thumping a soothing beat, Margaret stood before her wardrobe and selected the perfect ensemble. After hydrating with lightly-scented lotion, Margaret stood before the mirror and took in her form. 

Before being let go, Margaret would have classified herself as chubby-thin, but after months of consuming apathy, she was pleased to see a nearly ideal frame. In a perverted way, it was encouraging to recognize that her sporadic eating had at least led to this blessed result. She had always been small-chested, but her stomach was now flat, which accentuated her waist’s dramatic curves. Her hips appeared fuller than they would have in months prior, as her thighs had lost quite a bit of substance. Of course, her rear was also nearly nonexistent, but she would look good in a skirt, and that is what mattered. 

She donned her black lace undergarments and carefully pulled on each leg of her nylons, intent on avoiding snags. The red satin shirt wasn’t fitted, but she was sure to leave the top few buttons undone as she admired how the bra accentuated even her small chest. Finally, she stepped into the thigh-length black skirt that had not gotten much use since her college days. Blaring music, flashing lights, sweet drinks, and the smell of sweat came flooding back to her senses––a different life. 

The soothing hum of the hairdryer lulled Margaret into vivid memories of a carefree existence. She flashed through wine tastings, clubbing, hiking, shotgunning, and laughter. So much laughter. There would be reasons to laugh again. 

While meticulously applying her makeup, she started humming an upbeat, peppy tune. When was the last time she listened to music? She looked intently into the mirror. The woman staring back looked out with a blazing fire she hadn’t felt, let alone seen, in months. 

Margaret was ready. 

Standing before her front door little flutters of nerves mingled with overwhelming excitement. She took a final look around her spotless home, growing dim now as the sun moved towards the horizon. And she stepped confidently into the corridor. Turning to Ann’s door, an unexpected grin lit her face. She knocked twice and waited, her flutters quickening in the stillness. 

The older woman opened the door and took in Margaret’s outfit, looking her over with a critical eye and slightly pursed lips. She said nothing but simply raised an eyebrow.
“I’m ready,” Margaret said, attempting to mask her nerves. Ann, her sweet-old-lady disposition settling into that of a businesswoman, held her eyes with a nearly haughty gaze. 

“So you’re desperate.”
“Rent is due.” Margaret's feet were already aching in her low black heels. She shifted her weight from side to side, conscious that her fidgets betrayed hidden emotions.

“Hm.” Lips still pursed, the older woman left Margaret standing outside her door. She walked directly to a stack of cards lying on her phone table. Margaret was acutely aware of her flipping stomach as Ann returned with a lined index card in hand. 

“12 Faren Lane. 8 pm. Goes by Scott.” Margaret gave a curt nod, mind spinning as she did her best to place the location in her mind. There was no time for second-guessing. She strode to the stairs, shoulders erect, carrying her new purpose.