The Heir

I always make sure that I’m perfectly clean, that I smell of nothing more offensive than soap. I do my own laundry, washing my clothes, my towels, and my sheets every time that I use them.

I can’t stand the thought that I might accidentally smell as musty and unkempt as this house.

The scent clings to everything I own.

I hate that smell.

I hate coming home.

When I’m finally clean, I slip beneath the fresh sheets I put on the bed this morning.

I take a book from my nightstand, the one I’ve been reading the last three nights: Midnight’s Children.

I open it up and begin to read, till the physical exhaustion of the fight finally overtakes the frantic bustle of my brain.

Then I set the book down and let my eyelids drop, trying to remember only the words on the page, and not let my mind wander.

I don’t want to think about anything in my real life.

That’s what books are for.

To take you away . . .