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  There she is, on a dripping rug, next to a half burnt box collapsing soggily under the weight of the coffee supplies and the eaten away tray. Clanging, the cups regurgitate the now tepid coffee on the rug. A single tear accompanies her when she puts them back on the tray and brings them to the kitchen. More tears follow when she comes back with a garbage bag, in which she stuffs both the box and the rug, her gestures frantic. Then she sits on the couch rubbing her scar, apparently unaware of my languishing existence. Foolish of her. She knows I need attention and that bad things can happen if she doesn’t take care of me.

  *

  She stops rubbing and gets up, takes a quick glance at the thermostat while walking to the bedroom and comes back wearing a thick sweater. Picking up the stack of leaflets that went through fire and water, she sits close to me. The cheap credit she puts on her lap, as well as an advertisement for a shop offering Senseos and digital photo frames at good prices. Me, she feeds a flyer of a discount store, but not one with the latest mobile phones. Of course, hers is almost a year old. The brochure laced with gold ornaments featuring an iPod, a Nintendo DS and a giant flat screen TV lands on her stack, after which I get thrown the local newspaper in bite-sized pellets, followed by a Walmart leaflet. Greedily I consume them and when I take a large gulp of air, I can’t help releasing some gas.

  The phone rings. She puts the pile that still needs to be sorted on the floor. On top is the announcement of the new collection of her favorite brand of lingerie, that looks delicious.

  “Hi Mom,” sounds her tired voice. In the silence that follows I smoke some more. Then the chatter on the other side of the line is interrupted by: “Mom, I’ll call you back later tonight, okay? I’ve got a splitting headache and need to puke.” She hangs up without waiting for an answer.

  Of course I don’t get the lingerie, nor the brochure with all kinds of perfumes and ointments, or the jewelry advertising. I do get a leaflet with cheap pillows, because she chooses an ergonomic one from a posh shop.

  Me, me, me. She’s such a selfish bitch. Suddenly I’ve had enough.

  An old flame once accused me of being suffocating. I agree with him now, release some more gas. She starts to gag, gets up with difficulty, but doesn’t make it to the bathroom because she’s staggering like a drunk.

  The pile she wanted to keep for herself is still sailing to the floor when she falls. She gasps and a spasm causes the flyer with the ergonomic pillow to be clasped firmly between her fingers. The jewelry just floats up to me and I readily consume it. The lingerie brochure lands next to her foot. If only I could reach it.

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  About the author

  In addition to being a writer, Aglaia Bouma (1970) is an entrepreneur, empathic misanthrope, emotional rationalist, light-hearted pessimist and a social einzelgänger.

  Her Dutch novel ‘De dwaling’ was reviewed positively and her short stories often win in contests. The Dutch versions of ‘Self-portrait’ and ‘Unleashed’ were published in literary journals. ‘Heaven on Earth’ she read to the audience attending the presentation of an anthology the story was published in. Some other short stories were published in collections as well.

  When writing, she tries to describe the characters roaming her fantasy in a way that the resulting story keeps hanging around in the head of the reader for a while. Because you, dear reader, is what it’s all about!

  If you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it, I’d really appreciate you leaving a review at your favorite retailer.

  Connect with Aglaia Bouma

  You can contact me directly at: [email protected]

  New stories I announce here:

  Facebook: facebook.com/AglaiaBouma

  Twitter: twitter.com/AglaiaBouma

  Goodreads: goodreads.com/AglaiaBouma

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  More stories by Aglaia Bouma

  Self-portrait

  The lily

  Heaven on Earth

  Power failure

  Memory lingers on

  Anthology: In Reverse and other stories

  Drawing the line

  Unleashed

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