I wrote this little piece of flash fiction for the Scottish mental Health Arts and Film festival creative writing competition (although I didn’t actually enter in the end because I missed the deadline – oops!) The theme of the competition this year was RECLAIM.

Baggage

It was a red suitcase I’d been waiting for. Red wasn’t my colour, in fact I despised it. Under pressure a week before I’d left, a break up, I’d bought it at the insistence of a friend who decided it was time I revealed a ‘new me’. I can’t deny being slightly offended at this and wondered what had been wrong with the old me. Nevertheless, after being lectured about how red was the colour of confidence, I’d handed over my money. The banknotes not only paid for the case but also for numerous pieces of a holiday wardrobe that starkly opposed every aspect of my personality and style. The encouragement had been genuine though, ‘A trip away will be so good for you. A wee change of scene. Honestly, the sun does wonders for everyone. Believe me, you just need to relax when you’re there and you’ll forget all about him!’

Well I was stressed when I arrived in Spain, – stressed waiting for the bloody red suitcase to tumble it’s way along the baggage conveyor belt. Sluggish luggage dropped onto the rubber plates and snaked lazily through the mass of sweaty tourists, who anxiously waited to pounce on them.

As bags were hauled onto trolleys, the mass gradually dispersed. I waited with a handful of other holiday makers as the last of the cases strolled under the stark yellow ‘Baggage Reclaim’ sign.

The red case was the last to appear and by that time I stood alone. The other holiday makers had hopped onto buses and into taxis that were making their way to all-inclusive resorts.  I knew my friend would be waiting up for me at the villa.  Curiously though, I found myself just standing and watching. I watched as the case completed lap after lap around the black track. My limbs felt like deadened weights and something inside of me disobediently refused to retrieve it.

‘Excuse me miss, is that your suitcase?’ A Spanish porter asked tentatively from behind me.

I turned to him, looked him straight in the eye and without hesitation found myself saying. ‘No… that’s not my baggage…it must belong to someone else.’

Then I strode out empty handed into the Spanish sun.