The Outfit I Will Never Wear Again....

This is a memoir I wrote for a writing competition a few months ago. Unfortunately I wasn't placed but enjoyed writing it all the same and I thought I would share with you - enjoy!

The all-too-familiar smell of that warm, yet spicy cologne and the feel of the cotton against my skin as I plunge my arms once more through the sleeves of the dark green checked shirt that’s three sizes too big for me. It hangs on me like the tarpaulin of the crumpled tent we spent three rather damp nights in at a music festival a few years before. It seems such a long time ago now. When we thought, we were blissfully happy and had not a care in the world. 

Although I don’t want to, I can’t help but bury my face into the fabric, breathe deeply, close my eyes and remember. Remember the time we went on the spontaneous road trip to Scotland and how we had one too many tequilas and ended waking up the unimpressed guests in the residing rooms with our rendition of “500 Miles” by The Proclaimers. Or the time when, we were on holiday in Portugal and we thought we would be spontaneous and try exciting and exotic foods like octopus. It made us feel adventurous and daring at the time, but hours later we regretted this decision. Ending up curled up in the fetal position, clutching our stomachs and praying for the profound cramps and projectile vomiting to stop. That octopus had the last laugh. 

As I cross my arms over my stomach and grasp the sides of the shirt tightly, I imagine feeling your head resting on my shoulder, the warmth of your breath on my ear. Then I feel the bristles of your beard scratch my cheek. I remember how it felt like tiny needles stabbing my skin and how irritating that was. How, whenever you told me you loved me, your eyes wavered as though it caused you pain to look at me, like looking directly at the sun.  When I eventually found out and I told you how much you hurt me, you looked through me like I wasn’t even there. You said all the right things of course, that I was the only one for you. There was nobody else. But then when I questioned this you told me that I had it all wrong and that in fact somehow this was my fault. For six long months, I went on believing this, that I wasn’t good enough and that if only I had tried harder this might not have happened. 

Suddenly, the once comforting smell of the shirt begins to slowly repulse me. The cotton no longer feels as soft as it did, but like a scratchy old towel that had been left to airdry for too long. My hands release from my waist. Although the shirt is so big it nearly reaches my knees, I now feel suffocated wearing it. For the last time, I remove the shirt and I smile. I know I am enough.