Socks don’t have eyes, everyone knows that, but I could still see.
My elastic wrinkled back and the blue paisley pattern my owner was so proud of faded to a sickly vomit green. The smell was overpowering!
Every time the hamper was opened I prayed that someone would see me, but all that happened was the smelly rain. Wet towels, sport socks, clothes, even Bobby’s grimy fruit of the looms all landed on top of me with a wet putrid squelch.
My eyes watered and the seam at my toe started to unravel, melting in the hideous stench.
‘LEFTY” I cried hopelessly, “Where are you!”
But I was alone. I curled into a ball and tried to bury my nose in my own sweet woolen smell. If I kept still, away from the other filth that was being dumped around me, surely someone, sometime would come and wash us.
I felt so dirty, not just normal backyard football dirty, but the dirty that comes from old neglect and that worse hell for clothes, stylelessness.
Suddenly the hamper lid opened and lefty dropped in beside me. “Righty,” he said, “You stink!”