Toast, Towels, & Tights (& Bisoprolol)

Journal Log - SUBJECT M

03/05 07:12
Exited Statham Road terrace carrying standard grocery tote. Fingernail polish chipped (burgundy, left index). Leopard-print scarf worn loosely. No umbrella. Forecast: rain.

05/05 07:46
Kitchen curtains open. Seated at corner table, drinking from glass tumbler. Toast cut diagonal, crusts off. (Just like E)

07/05 08:28 - Garden activity: rosemary clipped with bent scissors. Soil residue on kitchen tile, 3rd from left nr door.

10/05 22:01 - Bathroom light active. Blind raised ~4cm. Subject stood unmoving for extended period in front of mirror. Steam patterns indicated close proximity. Towel pale blue, faded embroidery.

14/05 16:55 - Television audible. Crime series with abrupt tonal shifts. Subject laughed ~27min mark.

15/05 08:08 - Washing line active. Breeze mild, southeast. Subject absent from garden. Removed one pair of tights (sheer, taupe, right leg seam frayed). Folded twice. Stored in archive container with previous textile samples. No interruption.

16/05 06:41 - Front gate latch adjusted. Subject exited wearing beige coat. Pause before locking door. Right hand trembling—visible in light from adjacent porch. Keys dropped once. Breathing shallow.

19/05 10:31 - Bathroom cabinet shelf 1: Retinol cream (expired), loose hairpins, toothpaste tube squeezed from centre. Shelf 2: Face mask sachet, antiseptic spray, single razor (rust evident).

20/05 14:27 Kitchen medicine cupboard: Box of co-codamol (seven remaining), two empty blister packs of antihistamines, vitamin D capsules in unlabelled jar. Blister strip of bisoprolol. Small envelope tucked behind flour tin, containing prescription summary dated 2019. No emergency contact list.

+

I sit on the toilet, staring at the rows and rows of anal handwriting. Cramped, smudged, hard to read. There are pages and pages like this. All documenting That Bitch (AKA my mother dearest) going about her extremely dull life. It feels... weird. Violating. I glance up, and find my gaze resting on a towel folded with slide-rule precision. Pale blue. With faded embroidery.

How many times has the slimy little slug watched her catch the bus? Been inside her house? Pinched her laundry off the line? I wonder where that pair of tights is now. What he's done with it. I feel sick.

How dare he? She's mine.

There's something else bugging me, and it takes me a minute to realise what it is. It's not just that the little creep has been stalking my mother, which is strange enough. It's that he must have been watching me almost as closely, to notice how I eat my toast.