SIM Krysten Hohl
Sock's last laundry cycle
I know we came in together. I saw him. I recognized the pattern of stripes: one big, horizontal blue stripe, followed by a thinner grey one, then repeated. We are identical ya know… or at least we were made to be identical. We were identical until the day a toe ripped right through the top of him. Now I’m the one that is favored. But I know for a fact we came in together; I went in first. I had a good view of the door from where I was placed in the top left corner. I sat on her favorite baby blue sweatshirt; makes sense seeing as how we were worn together last Wednesday. But my twin and I had been separated as socks usually are. So I watched to see that he made it in. And sure enough, I caught a glimpse of him smashed between the red lace panties and sweat stained yoga pants in the opposite corner of the bin. But then the door shut, the lights went out, the room started spinning and the air started to heat up.
At one point I was struck with a rogue quarter that had been overlooked and left in a pants pocket. But there are worse things that can happen in here. Like the Chapstick meltdown last October. I hope we never have a repeat of that disaster. There is no telling how many times we tossed and turned; constantly spinning in circles is surprisingly exhausting. At one point we touched, but then as quickly as we had found one another we were ripped apart and tossed to opposite ends again. Once we were full of warmth and had returned to our dry state, the bin signaled with a beep and the door opened. I didn’t see him when we were pulled out and dropped into the hamper for I was trapped inside a jean pant’s leg without a view of my surroundings. It wasn’t until we were folded and sorted that I realized he was gone. Lost to the machine.
Just as his fate was sealed, so was mine. No one needs a single sock, after all that is why we are sold by the pair. I was tossed to the corner of the bed to watch as the others were sorted and placed in their appropriate drawers. Panties in the third from the top, bras just above them, and socks on top. The jeans were folded, sweatshirts stacked, the tops hung on color-coded hangers in the closet. I sat patiently, knowing my destination had changed. I would never again see the inside of the top drawer. I would never again be smashed against the floral patterned paper lining the bottom. I would never again smell the sachet of lavender placed in the back corner to keep us smelling nice. In fact, I was no longer destined for the dresser nor the closet at all. After a few minutes had passed and all my piers were where they belonged, I was carried down through the bedroom door, down the stairs and through the kitchen. I knew it was coming and yet I still couldn’t believe it as the pantry door swung open and the lid to the trashcan was raised just enough to engulf me as its latest victim into the dreary, smelly, darkness. A sock with no pair. A clean sock, in a dirty trash. My life.