What a feeling, fingers tracing my contours, my fluffiness, the rub of a thumb across my corners, the grain of me, every fibre, every shred, shimmering. This is it. My turn has arrived and I’m ready, anticipation of my worth, my use, my everything, all coming together – every moment of my making now meaning something. I’m being pulled from the shelf, I’ve been noticed. Somebody wants me, they looked at me with love and adoration and before a fold of me can be put out of place I’m heading to the checkout and being paid for. Slowly and carefully I’m wrapped and popped into a non-woven tote bag for a journey that will take me to my future. My long soft terry weave couldn’t be plusher.

And there it is, my fate, the swirl cirque, my home, my time yet to come, it looks comfortable, safe, so right for me. My prospects look good. My landscape, posh with natural flair, matching hi-end accessories against cool Bourgogna anthracite, it’s a paradise I hadn’t known existed. The shelf, a distant memory.

I’m woken by light of a cozy atmosphere and metal teeth distorting in descent. There’s a splash and a tinkle, a drip and a drop, then silence. Release of a sigh tells me the task is complete. A relaxing light gives me natural warmth, and I ready myself for action. I’m hopeful to experience a meaningful embrace. A whooshing, gurgling, rushing sound fills the euphemistic allusion to the chamber pot and in the same beat an orange-tinted entity moves closer, I’m tingling with anticipation, finally my fluffiness is going to be sampled. A click. Darkness drops like a stone. I’m a bit deflated. I feel abandoned, unused, my fibres infused with disappointment and not only that, but a question of hygiene also left unanswered.

Days and month have passed and after that initial teething episode there have been no more concerns. I have raison d’être and life is good. All sorts of hands are handling me, some treating me a bit kinder than others but that’s only natural, you have to take the good with the bad and to be honest I’ve got a lovely owner who cares for me and sees to my needs. I get upmost respect during laundering, best products used enable me to keep my ‘as new’ appearance and mostly, I’m smelling good. It’s all pretty much as it should be really and I cannot grumble. This is as good as life gets right. Just do as you’re supposed to and take each moment as best. There is one thing that scratches and tugs at my tag now and again though, ‘how long will this last’. I don’t know how many wipes, rubs, washes and dries I’ve got in me. I know I’m being looked after so I’ll be preserved well, that should help lengthen my lifespan. Anyway, I’ll push that to back of my label and get on with being happy in this current state. I couldn’t ask for more. I’m always excited to see who’s going to come through the smoke-glassed door next.

It’s been 3 years now since my days on the shelf ended. It’s been eventful, emotional and in part exceptional but now I’m feeling a bit thinned, not as fluffy as I used to be and on occasion even when I’ve just come out of laundry I can tell I’ve got a slight persistent odour, not the best when presenting to guests coming over but you know what, you just gotta keep on going eh. I’ve also moved, my landscape’s not quite as it were before, how I see it, being demoted to downstairs. Not as comfortable as before, everything is bright and white all the time, and it’s colder, there is an extractor fan which gets used a hell of a lot, and a window which lets in an excruciating draft, but at least I do now get to experience what’s known as ‘the seasons’ and there’s definitely one that is best, whereby I can stay warm everyday no matter if there’s anyone here to care for me or not. My corners are a bit frayed. I’m kind of just dabbed at now too, like those entities are less loving of touching me than they used to be. They’re all differing colours now too and the dark ones, they’re meanest, they brush past me, force me into places I don’t particularly want to go, drop me on the floor and sometimes even tread on me. I miss being upstairs, I miss my old beautiful bigger companions too, here in this little cupboard size bright room I’m mostly alone. I sometimes see a smaller sample of similarity to me but it looks all cut up and gets tucked behind pipes or shoved into a corner. I feel sorry for it because it doesn’t look happy at all. That’s my only company, if I’m lucky.

I’m full of holes, thin, frayed, no longer as effective as I used to be. I know I have some bacteria trapped in my fibres, and if I’m honest, I look washed out and yes, I’m very tired. I can tell I’m scratchy, I don’t like anyone touching me anymore. I believe I’m broken and my time is almost done. Oh what a lifespan. After all that I have given, how I’ve helped so many, how loyal I’ve been, always ready for whoever needed me and not once moaning, hiding away or being difficult. I’ve always faced the challenges and kept up the strength when times got tough. I gave this my all, for what?

I got ripped apart, I mean I wasn’t that big to start with, but they tore me to shreds and guess what? yep, you got it, I have become what I saw back then. I’m stuffed behind a pipe and get whipped out about once a week to endure degradation of rough hands wiping me round faucets and sanitaryware. I get covered with awful chemicals that rip at my threads, they squirt and spray me till I’m dripping and fuming and then to top it off I’m swiped everywhere as a means of removal of scuzz, scum and just about everything that’s yukky. What a horror story my life has turned into.

It’s been another two years. I’ve moved again. It’s strange where I’ve ended up and I would never have imagined it. There’s this slit in a large plastic tank that sits on an allotment site and one tip of me is slotted into that and that’s where I remain. There’s a tap not too far from me so at least I’m not totally alone. Occasionally, more so in warmer months, I’m made use of to wet and wipe clods of mud from gardening tools, and boots, wellington boots or short length riders. I’m slopped about, rubbed up and down and then slotted back into the slit. What a way to see out my usage. My youth was so wonderful but now at this old age phase I just feel used. And all that be as it seems, here in my little slit, I’m left facing the sun as it sets every day and there’s chance I might survive a bit longer yet and something I’ll always be grateful for as the sun does rise each day, is that by grace of luck I managed to find a way out of ending up becoming another casualty to landfill.

With love, Towel.