Shelf Life

I sit on a shelf in the dusty corner of the local hospice charity shop. I sit and wait. Wait for someone to take pity on me. My lacy exterior, fishnetted bulletproof sexuality hides the burden of what I've endured to reach this stage in my life when I am sat on a shelf as people look for bargain deals on preworn bras and knitting needles or that autobiography by Melania. How did I get here you might ask? How did my once sexually provocative and fiercely confident self end up with a fine layer of the rested remnants of human skin and other waste products gathering on my frayed nylon stitching? How did I get separated from my twin sister? Who would even decide that a used single suspender would be anything someone would want to buy? While I can't answer that question as still I sit, I can tell you the tale of how I came to be where I am. I was made as so many fast fashion pieces of lingerie are made, in a factory overseas. Is it overseas if that's where you're from or is it relative to where you are? If you're imagining a large landmass country near Japan and Russia, then you're thinking about the right spot. I was shipped out to the UK with my sister. Oh how I miss her. We spent our lives wrapped in plastic initially, with cardboard bondage. Our purpose was titillation and flirtation, to drive the hearts and loins of those whose eyes feasted on us into a frenzy. I remember the day we were taken from our retail nightmare prison and released to our new owner. A short and stout girl named Martina who had a date with a guy on Tinder called Gregory or Geoff. I cannot remember his name anymore. There have been so many men. So many women. So many times I've been hoisted up and peeled down legs in all positions. Akimbo, the dog, the wheelbarrow and the cowgirl were all overused favourites of the various owners. How did we come to just be me? There was a girl. Young and full of zest. Let's call her Sally. She was working as a stripper in a very exclusive club on the seedy side of town. You know the sort. The city doesn't matter. Anyway, she was working the bar and booths. A gentleman got a little handsy with me and my sis. He wouldn't take no for an answer. Entitled and ugly with a swollen gout-ridden limp and breath like damp pub carpets. We didn't even get a chance to say goodbye because once the security had beat up the top cut feely gentleman, sis, my dear Marie, was gone. When we were separated it felt like my very heart had been ripped in two. The last I saw was her lying lifeless on the club floor as Sally headed out into the night with me clinging to her right leg and waist with all my might. I still can't tell how much of the moisture gathering on me was tears, sweat or rain. Eventually I was discarded. Accidentally thrown into a bag of worn (and washed) underwear. * Thanks for reading! Author's Notes: So the inspiration for this story came from a chat between myself and Cristal S. in the comments section of her recent runner-up story Simply a Misunderstanding.