POLLUTING

It started with a subtle uncoil with the stitches that bound the shoulder strap and the purse together, except most of the times she had only paid attention to the shiny logo that pinpointed the existence of the purse. It was a purse she had received on her twenty-third birthday, a purse of refined quality and statement of her taste with a soft-coffee colored fawn skin and exceptional design. It had became much of a part of her and existed on every part of her house, from the kitchen counter to the stool, from the stool to the beige carpet. Until one day while waiting for a friend to arrive, she began to carefully examine the entirety of the purse again five months after she received it, cleaned out its guts, then discovered a loose brown thread whose one end was now visible. It was an unrepairable damage, for the fine craftsmanship was incompatible with any tailor shop that could possibly account for these amendments now. 

At this point more care was given to the purse, and heavier objects were avoided of being put inside its body; she had taken out the unnecessary toiletries, old receipts, and various brochures that were handed to her on shopping days and also wiped the leather with a moisturized cloth which had restored much of its lost shine. On several occasions she had even personally held the purse with both her hands, as if she was offering some sort of sacrifice to gods in order to avoid further wearing of the strap. The purse proved to be quite enduring also, as the untangling had seemed to halt, and the strap seemed to have a hold with the remaining four lines. So the days wore on and slowly she had grown an immense faith on the persistence of the purse and began to restored all its past belongings. She threw the purse around, swung it clumsily around her shoulders and ceased all her past precautions. 

One friday morning she had an appointment with a friend to stroll in the park with reddened leaves, and she had awoken twenty minutes late. After finishing all the essential means before leaving her house, she grabbed the purse that was hanging on the doorknob of her bedroom door, swung it on her right shoulder so violently that the body of the purse had struck her lower bag, and then it collapsed. The strap had finally been stemmed from its weakening roots and lay dangling on but one side of the purse like a limp neck, causing the organs to spill like a regurgitation; all the loose papers, loose change, pens and pencils and mirrors and palettes and even a two-day old sandwich scattered on the floor with irrevocable order and declaration that the reign of the purse had finally ended, with its incapability to maintain its citizens tightly, the breakage of the castle and a heart-broken queen.