The bag in the cupboard has been there for years. I have never opened it. It taunts me every time I open the door.
I have scrutinised it for a long time, several years in fact. I have stared at it for hours on end. It sits there begging to be opened.
At first, I didn't want to put it in there. I wanted to hurl it away from me, but I couldn't. I tried, time and time again. It has a hold over me like nothing else ever has.
I hate that bag, but at the same time I love it, and touch in tenderly.
If I hold it tight, it makes me cry. Damn bag. Throw it away, my mind tells me. Keep it, my heart tells me.
Which one do I listen to?
I even know the contents of that bag, I have seen them before. Damn that bag and damn it again.
If I open the bag, the contents will tear me apart. If I do not open the bag, it remains there taunting me, teasing me.
She wore what is in that bag. I can't bear to look. I can't bear not to look
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