Bag Lady
by Sara Clark
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A bag lady in a shopping mall contemplates suicide as her life falls to pieces around her.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A bag lady in a shopping mall contemplates suicide as her life falls to pieces around her.
She staggers through the shopping centre with her bags, guided by the lines of the old brick walls. The act of walking, like anything else her body chooses to do these days, does not feel like a conscious decision.
The handles of the bags leave wounds along her palms and her coat hides a multitude of sins. Her size 16 fleece shrink-wraps her torso into a strangely shaped package and her too tight bra carves her back into stiff, plump units of compressed flesh. A couple of young girls pass by, unburdened and beautiful. One nudges the other and laughs. They can never understand her position. They can afford beautiful clothes.
She once told herself that the coat looked respectable. It still might if she had accessories to complete the look - some soft leather gloves to fold in her palm, or some pearls to press to her neck as she considered her next purchase.
She won’t ever take it off. She’d die first.
There’s a young man reflected in the shop window beside her. He is beautiful. He makes her want to vanish – but of course that isn’t necessary. People like her don’t have to – as anonymous as bin vans, hauling their burdens away to unseen side-streets after dark.
She paws at her hair and tries to stand up straight. If it wasn’t for carrier bags she might be able to. Their handles bite her flesh like teeth. The nauseous stream of shapes and pains her life has become is overflowing. The glass balcony that hangs over the food court would be easy to fall over – the air quickly entered, the floor soon hit. The bags she holds in each hand would be good ballast.
She lumbers onto the escalator, grabbing the rubber handhold. She no longer cares who is laughing at her, or even where she is. The world is a mess of colours, lights and faces – her mother tongue an unintelligible din.
She reaches the bottom step and heads to the toilet, joining the queue of women. The one in front looks about her age – large oval eyes, hair that curls in scrolls of gold, her handbag a beautiful, expensive oval of velvet, hanging neatly down against the embroidered hem of her coat. She looks at the bag lady’s outfit, nudges her friend and laughs.
Why do they laugh? They will never understand how it feels to be her. More eager than ever to disappear, she hobbles into the cubicle and hangs her bags on the door handle, struggling out of her coat.
A cold line of sweat runs down her stomach. She hangs the coat up over the peg and jams her fingers into the toilet roll dispenser. Its perforated edge grazes a small wad of flesh from her fingers, and she sucks the pain away before snapping off a few sheets, dabbing the sweat from the pulsing mound of her stomach, shame weighing her down like a black, wet shawl.
She starts to cry, wiping the salt fluids away with more tissue, soft white wads of it absorbing the ghastly odour that hangs about her. She pulls out another length and presses it to her face, inhaling the sterile, chemical smell. Finally she takes off the jumper, turns it back to front and forces her head back through the tight neck.
She puts the coat back on, buttoning it up carefully, and looks inside the carrier bags. A blanket, a flattened tube of toothpaste, half a litre of Coke, a grey towel, a couple of cards of ibuprofen and a crumpled mess of pamphlets. How can so little weigh so much? She leaves them hanging on the door handle.
Hobbling to the sink, she washes her neck, and a damp, itchy mess of fleece spreads out across her chest. At the sink, a tall goddess with a midriff as smooth and straight as sanded pine is washing her hands, and she returns her curious glance in the mirror, casting a wry smile in the bag lady’s direction. Why does she smile so? She feels no real affinity for her. As she walks out of the door, she remembers to stand up straight. Posture is important.
Heading back up the escalator, her gaze rests on the balcony. The security guard notices her and heads her way. She’ll have to be quick to get past him. She begins to run, and as she reaches the balcony she falls to the ground and starts screaming.
Nothing matters - not the strangers or their laughter. She screams, and the world blurs and her heart beats loud in her ears. She’s still screaming when the security guard clasps her wrist.
She glances up at the blue, clean lines of his uniform, breathes in his light, fresh scent. The pressure of his fingers around her wrist vanishes, and his palm slides into her own - as smooth and cool as a pebble. He kneels on the floor and looks into her eyes before frowning down at the rest of her body.
“It’s a young girl, she’s giving birth…” he tells his walkie talkie. “I can’t do this alone… I need help!” She gazes up at the strong young man in his fancy jacket and laughs.
The handles of the bags leave wounds along her palms and her coat hides a multitude of sins. Her size 16 fleece shrink-wraps her torso into a strangely shaped package and her too tight bra carves her back into stiff, plump units of compressed flesh. A couple of young girls pass by, unburdened and beautiful. One nudges the other and laughs. They can never understand her position. They can afford beautiful clothes.
She once told herself that the coat looked respectable. It still might if she had accessories to complete the look - some soft leather gloves to fold in her palm, or some pearls to press to her neck as she considered her next purchase.
She won’t ever take it off. She’d die first.
There’s a young man reflected in the shop window beside her. He is beautiful. He makes her want to vanish – but of course that isn’t necessary. People like her don’t have to – as anonymous as bin vans, hauling their burdens away to unseen side-streets after dark.
She paws at her hair and tries to stand up straight. If it wasn’t for carrier bags she might be able to. Their handles bite her flesh like teeth. The nauseous stream of shapes and pains her life has become is overflowing. The glass balcony that hangs over the food court would be easy to fall over – the air quickly entered, the floor soon hit. The bags she holds in each hand would be good ballast.
She lumbers onto the escalator, grabbing the rubber handhold. She no longer cares who is laughing at her, or even where she is. The world is a mess of colours, lights and faces – her mother tongue an unintelligible din.
She reaches the bottom step and heads to the toilet, joining the queue of women. The one in front looks about her age – large oval eyes, hair that curls in scrolls of gold, her handbag a beautiful, expensive oval of velvet, hanging neatly down against the embroidered hem of her coat. She looks at the bag lady’s outfit, nudges her friend and laughs.
Why do they laugh? They will never understand how it feels to be her. More eager than ever to disappear, she hobbles into the cubicle and hangs her bags on the door handle, struggling out of her coat.
A cold line of sweat runs down her stomach. She hangs the coat up over the peg and jams her fingers into the toilet roll dispenser. Its perforated edge grazes a small wad of flesh from her fingers, and she sucks the pain away before snapping off a few sheets, dabbing the sweat from the pulsing mound of her stomach, shame weighing her down like a black, wet shawl.
She starts to cry, wiping the salt fluids away with more tissue, soft white wads of it absorbing the ghastly odour that hangs about her. She pulls out another length and presses it to her face, inhaling the sterile, chemical smell. Finally she takes off the jumper, turns it back to front and forces her head back through the tight neck.
She puts the coat back on, buttoning it up carefully, and looks inside the carrier bags. A blanket, a flattened tube of toothpaste, half a litre of Coke, a grey towel, a couple of cards of ibuprofen and a crumpled mess of pamphlets. How can so little weigh so much? She leaves them hanging on the door handle.
Hobbling to the sink, she washes her neck, and a damp, itchy mess of fleece spreads out across her chest. At the sink, a tall goddess with a midriff as smooth and straight as sanded pine is washing her hands, and she returns her curious glance in the mirror, casting a wry smile in the bag lady’s direction. Why does she smile so? She feels no real affinity for her. As she walks out of the door, she remembers to stand up straight. Posture is important.
Heading back up the escalator, her gaze rests on the balcony. The security guard notices her and heads her way. She’ll have to be quick to get past him. She begins to run, and as she reaches the balcony she falls to the ground and starts screaming.
Nothing matters - not the strangers or their laughter. She screams, and the world blurs and her heart beats loud in her ears. She’s still screaming when the security guard clasps her wrist.
She glances up at the blue, clean lines of his uniform, breathes in his light, fresh scent. The pressure of his fingers around her wrist vanishes, and his palm slides into her own - as smooth and cool as a pebble. He kneels on the floor and looks into her eyes before frowning down at the rest of her body.
“It’s a young girl, she’s giving birth…” he tells his walkie talkie. “I can’t do this alone… I need help!” She gazes up at the strong young man in his fancy jacket and laughs.
About the Author
Sara Clark lives in Hawick. She is an award-winning writer and poet. Her first novel, Summer's Lease, was released in October 2015.