Short Story: Property Is Impossible

Short Story: Property Is Impossible

As she opens the door, the sound made by the mechanism inside the handle is perfect. It’s a hollow sound, and from that sound the whole of the empty bedroom blossoms like a crystal round a piece of grit.

Her favourite thing is the cover on the bed, the way it’s tucked in all round underneath the mattress. It could have been a candlewick spread – the sort that goes down to the floor and hides any redundant space – but she prefers a neat, almost institutionalised style in the spare bedrooms. They were created to exist in a state of suspended animation, so it would have simply been crass to try and maintain a lived-in feel about them.

At certain times of the year, one or two these spare rooms might be occupied by guests, but this room is the last in line – number four, so to speak – and it has never been slept in. Not once during all the years that she and Richard have lived here.

The bedding gets changed three times a year to stop it going musty, but that’s a mechanical task, like changing the oil in a car. Nothing, compared to the cleaning required when someone actually used the room overnight.

By now she is sitting on the edge of the firm bed, feeling the slight roughness of its woollen cover through the fabric of her skirt. In one corner, by the French windows, there is a small triangular sink – too small to be of any use, but suitably discreet – and she is looking at the light from outside which has been captured in the hollows of its smooth ceramic surface. It is a pale, northern light, enough to illuminate the things in the room, but never enough to wear them out.

She listens. Not a sound, not even the sound of her own breathing. Nothing from the lawns beyond the veiled window, or from the long empty corridor on the other side of the door.

She'd let the door close behind her, with the silencer pulling it to, but also slowing it down and preventing it from closing completely. Instead it had been stopped and held slightly ajar when the latch connected with the metal plate on the frame. Even so, she is secure in the knowledge that no one will come into this room.

No one has any reason to come in here.

This isn't just an empty room, it’s a spare room. So, though the various fittings which make up a bedroom are present, there is no reason for them to be present.

In this room, no need to be reasonable.

Property is theft.

Property is freedom.

Property is impossible.

Pierre Proudhon.

Mick Parkin has also written five novels, which are available to download for 1 pound each, from the LULU website.

Just google "mickparkin" as one word