He curled his toes, feeling the roughness of socks on carpet. She had looked at him with angry eyes when he tried to wear his shoes into her house. How was he to know? Nobody had ever made him take off his shoes before. She told him to sit on the couch and she'd be back. He sat, dutifully. She still hadn't come back.
He could smell old person smells oozing out of the wood panel walls. Cat urine and cough syrup and dead skin cells oppressed him.
The room was dark and oppressive, and the lamps did nothing to help. The furniture soaked up the pitiful light like sponges. Everything was dark. Everything was wood.
The carpet was old and thin. It scraped roughly against the bottoms of his feet.
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Ick! I can smell, see, and feel it all, which means, great writing once again.
ReplyDeleteEverything Ali said exactly. I hope it was all your imagination, though-- not reality.
ReplyDeleteAlso, my family takes its shoes off, too-- or it did until recently, because when I went to visit my parents in Washington, they sometimes left their shoes on and sometimes not. They tell me our tradition comes from Africa.
Isn't it funny how different people have different normals?
"ragratio"
ReplyDeleteWe take our shoes off in MOM's house so she doesn't have to vacuum so often. I feel bad when I wear shoes through her house. Even new shoes.
ReplyDeleteAnd no, this is just my imagination and my memories of Old Persons' Homes.
Yeah, that sounds like my family. Also old people. Good job.
ReplyDelete