The shrill peel of my alarm thrust me into another unwelcome day. I stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the taps. The pipes groaned in protest. While I waited for the water to warm I stared at my reflection through slitted eyes. I looked older than my 40 years. I felt about a hundred. I winced as the water stung my red raw hands. I rubbed them dry. No lotions for me. What was the point of softening skin that had never caressed a lover or soothed a baby?
In the bedroom I squeezed my bulk into the too small dress I wore yesterday, picking off the congealed egg with my nail. I glanced at the clock. It was 6.27 am. Mother would be sitting up in bed now, walking stick poised ready to bang on the floor if I was so much of a second late. She would readily empty her bladder in protest at my neglect, grimacing as she told me she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t possibly wait another moment for her selfish daughter to tend to her needs.
Every day was exactly the same, monotonous, backbreaking and lonely. I dreamed of breakfast in bed, of holidays in the sun, sometimes I even dared wish for love.
One day things would be different, the thudding of the stick on the ceiling above me sliced through my thoughts, I was forever waiting for that day.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction – a story of around 200 words inspired by a prompt.