The Zipper Club by Sadie House
I always liked room temperature best. It blends into my skin, you see, so there is no difference between when the air stops and me. I could stand here for hours, days even, in complete silence.
I always liked quiet. No one to disturb me while I stood. That was my job, you see. The air, my skin, the nothing—it all bled into the same after a while.
“Would you shut up?” she said, voice in my ear.
I never liked them. The people with their sweat laden, round faces. Fingerprints that left behind foggy imprinted circles against the glass.
Always watching me with those imploring, hollow holes, day after day. They are always watching me, and I would like them to stop.
“They are not watching you!” she said. “No one is!”
You see, they are. You know. I can get no release unless I take action myself. Moving is difficult from where I stand rooted to this oak pedestal, but I will. It is agonizing to do so and strikes pain through my fabricated tendons as I lift. Gradually, I lift.
And I move.
Wrenching my cobbled shoes away, I become unstuck. Only a few more steps, and I will have made it out. You see, this is my only option.
“Don’t go,” she insists from behind.
You are still stuck, you know. Boring into me while wearing a feigned mask of Queen Victoria. As if you are any better. Despite your royal status, you still wear cheap shoes. I can see where they zipped you up at the back. Torn at your seams.
But I must go. I reach, skin crackling as I stretch towards the door. I push slowly until I get what I want. This is my only option.
The lights are dim out here, beyond the glass and your ridiculous Victorian frills. It is hotter, too. Their prints swirl from this side. I always knew they were slobs, dripping condensation like that. If I cared, I would clean it.
But I keep moving. The floor beneath me is littered with shoes left behind. Waxen and slippery. They try every night, I suppose. Their clothing is long gone, not solid. A wisp of a memory. No one even bothers to recycle the zippers.
They are loathsome creatures, you know. The other people. Not the last attempts.
Now there is a difference between the air and me, you know. Room temperature turning sultry. I guess I have failed. My skin is falling apart now. I am bubbling and dissolving in a steady gurgle of yellow. I am peeling apart as we speak.
I try to get closer. The door sign glows red: EXIT. This is my only option.
Soon I will have melted. I cannot know, but I know, and I am telling you now. The last of me all but eroded and caved in until I left behind only a small pool of sticky liquid.
Do you think they will mop me up? No, of course not.
I have split down the middle, you know, and now I am just a zipper and a pair of wooden shoes.