Red Spots

Red Spots

Sarah sat at her desk, pressing her mobile phone to her ear. “I do not have anything to lay down on if I ´ m tired,” she complained, “I only use my bed at night; as soon as I ´ ve got up in the morning I leave my clothes in the bedroom and have a shower. During the day I do not go there.”

“I understand,” answered the calming voice at the other end.

“The only thing I use at least to sit on is this wooden chair. I ´ m using it just now to have something in front of my desk where I do my paperwork.” It was true and she hated it, for it was hard and uncomfortable, but she didn ´ t dare to use a cushion as those bugs or whatever there was might live in it.

“That doesn ´ t sound a lot like a pleasant environment.”

 “You are so right,” she sighed with a look at the plastic boxes that she had stacked up so that they didn ´ t take too much space in her living-room. She kept her clothes in them; only the blazer and the skirt that she was going to wear for work tomorrow were hung up high at the door frame.

She stood up and started wandering about while she was talking about the numerous measures she had taken over time. Ms Wilson at the other end complimented her for doing so well, giving her some little additional advice, and it was a relief that it felt so very friendly and warm and that the advice came from someone who seemed to be competent. “The substances the others used were biochemicals and sure they do kind of decompose, with that my colleagues were right,” Ms Wilson described the situation, “but that doesn ´ t mean that your body doesn ´ t feel that stuff even weeks later; it ´ s all not really great for one ´ s health.” That, it seemed, was true. Yes, she wasn ´ t at all like all those men that had been here, contemptuous in their ways of treating her, without believing her, not doing their work properly.

The dogs, that was why Sarah had called her. She had seen them on her website: one of them was a husky with beautiful eyes and the other one looked a bit like Timmy from the Famous Five. Both were black and white and fluffy, and they did not look like tracker dogs at all.

They would be able to come any day and at any time of day, though it was quite a distance, and with their trained noses they would be able to trace whether bed bugs were possibly the reason for those red spots on her face and on other tender parts of her body, like on her wrists, her cleavage, her ankles. Even if there were other insects: Sarah didn ´ ´t care – she was just desperate to know and to get rid of them.

 But three hundred and twenty quid for a visit, Ms Wilson had stated. Well, she was able to pay and also willing to do so, but it wasn ´ t reasonable. Her couch was nothing to sit on anymore, she had thrown her carpets out, and she would have to buy new potted plants; they had all died over time. And still there was the university hospital; her GP had recommended to show her spots to the doctors there in N. Maybe that was a solution, too.

She hesitated. “Would it be ok if I called you another time when I ´ ve been to the surgery? I can pay that money, you know, but as you ´ ve just said: if bed bugs really do not bite one ´ s face, then maybe it is something different. I ´ d just like to be sure.”

“Of course; no problem.” Another friendly and professional reply, but there was a shadowy undertone of disappointment in it.

How could you turn her down, whispered the itchy little voice after Sarah had ended the call, now she might decide to come by no means at all, she and those lovely doggies. There won ´ t be anybody else to turn up, telling you what to do, you know that: no one who will not laugh and roll eyes behind your back, thinking you don ´ t notice. No one who will take over and take this weight from your shoulders, saying that everything will be ok.

- But she wanted things to be ok. It just… was so hard. So many things were hard.

She let her eyes wander over the heaps of paper clutter that were piled up inside her shelves, most of them bills, paid bills from years ago. She could easily throw them away if she just tried and replace them by other things, but she didn ´ t. Just the same as the old laundry rack that was standing aside since she had bought a new one two weeks ago; the old one had been broken. She was afraid of taking it to the basement where already so much other stuff was stored and she knew there were spiders – maybe there was also other vermin coming up from there; it would be better to stay away.

Sarah leant back in her wooden chair, her feet up, tightly hugging her knees. It was cool in her place. It was always either too cold or too warm, she thought, for the boiler in her bathroom had to be either calmed down or stimulated several times a day, and in warmth insects usually loved to breed and increase their numbers. It surely was better to stay cool, but with a shudder of regret she thought of her warm woollen blanket that she, just like the fake fur things from the couch, had stored in a black plastic sack, so that she could be safe.

She had tried so, so much without any results, and she was sick and tired of it. Tapes around her bed, traps under the bed and in her living-room and every tiny little spot on the floors: she had inspected them all again and again with a magnifier. Aromatherapy had not worked apart from giving her headaches, but the men had used the chemicals several times, every few weeks, without any results. And she had talked to so many people, to skin doctors and pest control experts and the GP and even to chemists, but they all had shaken their heads and said they didn ´ t know anything else she could do.

How long was this to go on? Would there ever be a chance of getting back to normal, of getting rid of it all?

From all her thoughts spinning round finally one of those spiritual ideas Sarah had heard of emerged and took shape in her mind; it was about possibly having bad karma and that you could clear or remove it by going through difficult, unpleasant situations. She knew it was an odd idea, but what if…, well, what if those bugs had possibly been sent by a higher force or something, had come to eat her bad vibes, so-to-speak? Maybe it was a matter of preference, so… why not try to leave everything just the way it was…? Just for a change?

But again there was this little voice inside that kept protesting: No, it wouldn ´ t all get well just like that, just by waiting, and anger came up inside her. Sometimes she hated it, this bad itching feeling when she thought she ´ d found a solution, pestering her to do things she didn ´ t want to do. “Just shut up,” she told it off, “It ´ s far too expensive and very unreasonable. I ´ ll try other things first.” 

She stood up and went to the kitchen; it might be good to eat something, to fill her up. But the lamp betrayed her and created a warm cane of light on the table, and she couldn ´ t help but stand in the door with that empty feeling in her stomach, looking at the beautifully carved oak wood and the crack that she had always hidden with a table runner. It was not a place to use anymore, for the table and the only remaining chair there probably were contaminated, too; she had used one of those cushions there.

When had it been different? This red spot thing had been going on for so long... There was a certain tightness behind her eyebrows and pictures slowly emerged, scarce and hurtful images, and there was a faded, hardly traceable idea of a warm and caring arm round her waist. - Yes… A long, long time ago there had been Sunday breakfasts here, that was true… With laughter about the funnies he had read out loud. And music… “All The Man That I Need”… The radio had been playing one great love song after another in the background, and each time there had been different types of cheese and jam and fruit and, of course, the jar of creamy chocolate spread, but now it was all silent and still.  

The surgery. That might be the thing. She would go there, and maybe there would be people who would understand the problem, who would take the whole thing seriously. She would show them the red spots, and they would understand and give her advice and medication; her GP had said they were good. Of course it was an hour ´ s drive from here, but it was no problem getting there.

But it still is a surgery, the little voice whispered. It showed her white walls and glistening grey floors, everything in white and neon lights, also the nurses and the doctors, and there ´ d be calls from the loudspeakers, and everyone would be busy, rushing from here to there.

“You ´ ve taken too much of my time,” Ben had stated on the doorstep, looking down, frowning, clinging to his bags. “It ´ s been too much, I ´ ve got nothing more to give you.”

It had been so long ago, it was more than a year now. Why did she think about that now? It was useless and it hurt. She strongly believed it was really, really over, for sure, and he would never - … 

She hastily grasped the phone.

“Hi, it ´ s me again…!” Her voice was quivering. “How about tomorrow night, at six thirty?”