Mr B

Mr B had the room before me.
The flowery ill-fitting curtains would dance on the same breeze when the window was cracked open in it’s old wooden frame. The paint is long past peeling. It’s cracked and chucks have fallen off, revealing the bare battered knotted wood.
Mr B would have seen the state of it. I wonder if he ever thought about it, and muttered about the state of the frame whilst ignoring the state of his life.
Like I do now.
The bed creaks and is lumpy with the masses of the dead dreams of the owners before. It’s more comfortable than the chair that acts as a wardrobe, covered in a few draped over it. There’s no where else in this rented box. There’s a jacket, a coat and a spare shirt.
I have two books under the bed. They’re battered and old and second hand. The dog ears more torn and ruff than the dog across the road that has never know warmth.
That’s all I have as I sit in this box. I’d have a bottle if I had the money.
But I just sit in silence. Thinking.
It’s painful and lonely, so busy as usual.
Mr B used to work in the garden. Kept himself busy, or so I’m told.
Mr B used to like gravy. There’s nothing wrong with gravy, it’s just the rest of the bland food.
She keeps telling me about Mr B, how he spent his days, or how he didn’t. I know more about the pieces of Mr B’s life than my own. I curse Mr B. His repetitive ways, how he used to lie here for hours doing nothing, just thinking. Whatever he did in the garden has been overthrown by the hissock grass. His life is just the facts I’ve been told. The rest of it is gone.
I lie here thinking, I resent Mr B.


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