The Duffel Bag

Date: 10/10/2025

I was lugging around a massive duffel bag — the kind that makes your arms ache before you’ve even lifted it. Across the side, in fat black marker, I’d scrawled: “This bag is fucking heavy.” I wasn’t trying to be clever or draw attention to myself. It was just true. The thing was heavy — suspiciously so. It felt like it might contain… parts. Of something. The thought sent a flicker of panic through me. Suddenly, everyone seemed to be looking — not at me, but at the bag. I told myself to stay calm. Which, of course, made me look guiltier. I hadn’t really helped myself, had I? Dragging a giant duffel around the changing room of a public swimming baths. The floor was slick with water, the air thick with chlorine and the echo of children screaming joyfully, as if mocking me. “You’ll need to shower before you get in,” my husband said, as though he had taken on role of lifeguard. “How the hell am I supposed to fit this thing into a locker?” I muttered, forcing the bag into one of those narrow metal boxes. It was like trying to fit a circle into a triangle on a toddler’s shape sorter. Impossible. Eventually I gave up and shoved it under a bench. “That’ll do,” I said, a little proudly. When I came back from the pool, dripping and shivery, the bag was still there. Untouched. A small miracle. Then everything shifted — as if someone had dragged a new scene over the old one — and I was now in some whimsical garden of a sprawling mansion. The bag was still with me, hidden beneath a tiny plastic chair that made me look comically large, knees jutting up like a praying mantis. Apparently, it was my son’s friend’s house. A play was underway — one of those amateur school performances where everyone claps out of obligation. “What is this crap?” I whispered, or thought I whispered. Heads turned. Parents glared. Among them, Kylie — an old friend I hadn’t seen in years — eyes narrowed. Her daughter, Ava, was the lead. Poor kid. She was terrible. I felt my cheeks heat up, guilt mingling with embarrassment. Then came a crackle — static, voices over walkie-talkies. Police. The sort that sound official even when you can’t make out the words. My stomach lurched. I crossed my legs to hide the duffel bag, which suddenly felt enormous. My son sat beside me, scrolling through his phone, perfectly calm. When I leaned over, he tilted the screen away, the movement small but sharp. A fresh wave of dread hit me. What if he knew something? What if this secret — whatever it was — was his? “Shall we make some cakes?” I blurted, too loudly. He glanced up. “Anything to get me out of watching this shitty play.” We slipped into the house. The kitchen was absurdly beautiful — all marble and light, the kind of space that makes you question where you went so wrong in life? We started baking… something. A tart, maybe. But I couldn’t focus. My mind was outside, with the policemen pacing the garden. When I remembered the oven, the thing inside was charred beyond recognition. I tried again, but my patience failed me. The second batch was raw. “This will have to do,” I sighed, pushing the plate towards Alex. He took a bite and immediately spat it out. “No good?” I asked. He shook his head, disgusted. When we walked back outside, the policemen were gone. The chairs were empty. The play was over. And the duffel bag — of course — had vanished.