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I glanced at the clock, wringing my hands together anxiously. He would be arriving soon with the beautiful wooden chest I’d purchased at the swap meet. The anticipation of adding this new piece to my collection brought a momentary flicker of excitement, but it was quickly overshadowed by the crushing weight of my hoarding issue.
As I continued to pace, I thought of my mother. Her death had been so unexpected, so final, and it had left a deep chasm in my heart. The fear of loss had driven me to cling even more tightly to my possessions, as if they could somehow fill the void she had left behind.
My life was a constant cycle of shopping and hoarding, a never-ending quest to fill the gaping void left by the loss of my mother. But it wasn’t enough. I felt the need to collect more and more stuff, to surround myself with a protective wall that might, in some way, shield me from the pain and vulnerability I felt inside.
Every day, I scoured online marketplaces and local thrift stores, searching for anything that would bring me a momentary sense of security. I meticulously examined each item, savoring the temporary comfort it brought me before adding it to my ever-growing collection. From clothing and trinkets to furniture and electronics, no category of possession was immune to my voracious appetite for acquisition.
My once warm and inviting home became a fortress. Narrow pathways wound through towering stacks of possessions, each item a physical manifestation of my emotional armor. As the piles grew higher, I began to feel a sense of accomplishment, as if I were constructing a tangible barrier between myself and the crushing weight of my grief.
Friends and family tried to intervene, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with even a single item. To me, each one represented a small piece of the world I could control, a tiny bastion of safety amidst the chaos of a shattered heart and a ruminating mind. No amount of pleading or persuasion could convince me that the safety I sought was an illusion, and that my compulsive hoarding was only serving to isolate me further.
Deep down, I knew that no amount of material possessions could ever truly fill the void left by my mother’s passing. As my home transformed into a claustrophobic labyrinth of clutter, I began to realize that my true safety and comfort lay not in the objects I hoarded, but in the love and support of those around me. And yet, facing my grief head-on seemed so daunting that I continued to cling to my protective wall of stuff, desperate for any solace it could provide.
In time, my hoarding began to take its toll on my relationships, my health, and my overall quality of life. I found myself retreating further into my fortress of belongings, as the world outside became increasingly difficult to face. Though I longed for the connection and understanding I once had with my loved ones, the thought of dismantling my wall seemed impossible.
Yet here I was, not only feeling the anticipation of receiving the chest, but of seeing the tattooed trader again. There was something about him I couldn’t quite place. Something that drew me to him like a crawfish to the boil. Like my purchases, he seemed to offer comfort from pain and safety from the world. There was a calm strength in him that I could feel from the first time we met.
But he wasn’t my type, or so I thought. I wondered who my type was, as it seemed no one was anymore. Everything had been reduced to something that could fill what could never be filled. Could he do that? The prospect was too scary to think about, so I pushed it out of my mind and focused on the chest that would be arriving any moment.
I looked in the mirror, intending to check whether my hair was groomed, and I looked presentable. When I saw my outfit – sweats and a loose top – I decided to change. I pulled on my jeans, and as I took off my top and looked at my naked breasts, I ran my hands over them and closed my eyes, thinking about the hot trader. I loved that he had offered some form of distraction from my not-so-normal life.
Then I pulled on a tight white t-shirt and almost decided to change once again when I saw the outline of my nipples prominently on display but threw caution to the wind and decided to leave it at that. But as the minutes ticked by, I started having second thoughts.
The sound of a truck pulling up outside my house snapped me out of those thoughts. I peeked through the window, my breath catching in my throat as I spotted him unloading the chest from his truck. My palms grew clammy, and I wiped them on my jeans as I tried to calm my racing heart.
“Get a grip, Juliette,” I muttered to myself, taking a deep breath. I opened the door when he knocked and was greeted with a friendly smile on his face.
It had been a hot day, but as the sun was making its way, it had cooled somewhat… until that moment. I felt like I was burning up inside.
His voice was warm and reassuring. I couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes briefly flicked to the confusion in my yard, and I felt a surge of embarrassment. I forced a nervous smile.
As he maneuvered the chest through the cramped space of my house, his strong arms easily handling the heavy item, I found myself watching his movements, impressed by his strength. So protective, I thought.
I felt a wave of shame wash over me as I saw him glance into other rooms while moving towards the spot where I had instructed him to place the chest. It didn’t seem to bother him, though. He appeared to sense my unease and brushed it off, as if he already understood that everyone copes with things in their own unique way.
When it finally came time for him to leave, it was as if both of us wanted to say more, but neither did. I couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of longing – a desire for the freedom and simplicity he seemed to embody as his truck finally drove out of view.
Alone once more, I sank down onto the floor, my back pressed against the newly placed chest. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what my life would be like without the weight of my possessions, without the constant fear of loss. It was a difficult image to conjure, but as I thought of him…Chains, and the world he inhabited…I couldn’t help but wonder if there might be a different way to live.
* * *
She sat alone,the dwindling light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the room. Her eyes were fixed on the antique mirror hanging on the opposite wall, her reflection staring back at her – distant – hollow.
Her surroundings were opulent, filled with the grandeur of her purchases – beautiful paintings adorned the walls, priceless antique furniture lined the room, and ornate chandeliers hung overhead. Each object a stark contrast to the austere life of her mother and herself.
But as she looked around, her mind was elsewhere, consumed by a growing fear that had begun to cast its dark shadow over her heart. She questioned what her future held. The inheritance was dwindling – a fact she’d been trying to ignore for quite some time.
Her spending habits were a reflection of a lifestyle neither she nor her mother had ever experienced. The thought of altering them sent a chill down her spine. What would happen when the inheritance eventually ran out?
Her heart pounded in her chest as she grappled with the uncertainty. It felt like she was on the edge of a precipice, staring down at an abyss of the unknown. And for the first time in her life, she felt vulnerable, alone in her false grandeur, silently wrestling with the ghost of a future not yet arrived.
Tears welled in her eyes, a nightly ritual that mirrored her heartache. She succumbed once more to the dark that relentlessly threatened to engulf her, but tonight it was different.
There was a glimmer at the bottom – a minute speck in the seemingly infinite dark – but as she continued her descent, its form started to solidify. Eyes. There was a man at the pit’s base, his arms outstretched waiting to catch her in her fall.
The comforting vision soothed her troubled mind, and she drifted into sleep right there in her seat.
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