Spackle (Short Story)
Author's note: this story contains suggestive and disturbing content. Please proceed with care. My walls must be full of holes. They are being patched up, but not by me. I noticed it getting out of the shower a few weeks ago. There was this rough little piece by my linen cabinet, looking like my flat decided to grow stubble. It looked shoddy. Someone - my landlord, I assumed at first - had taken some spackle and a spatula to the plaster, then painted over it without sanding. The colour was different, but barely; like determining whether you’re looking at eggshell or bone. I ran my thumb over it, unthinking. It felt like the wall bulged, bucked against the skin and I reminded myself it was just part of the shitty paste job. That thought didn’t stop my stomach from turning over. I mentioned it to my friend the next day, who started on a predictable yet cathartic tirade about how landlords always need to give notice before intruding, even for maintenance. That was, surprisingly...
