Inktober 2025 - 12 - Shredded

In knee-high socks, shorts, and her largest and comfiest hoodie, Solène was considering a shoebox of memorabilia, on the kitchen counter in front of her, with a glass of red wine in her hand. When the microwave beeped, she put her drink down behind her, and went to retrieve her instant dinner from the machine. On her way back to her contemplation, she did sprinkle the cardboard plate with shredded cheese, to give it the slightest semblance of something home-made, but that was all the sophistication she granted her meal. Without taking her eyes of the pile of souvenirs again, she took a sip of her wine and then took out a fork from a drawer to plant it into her still fuming food.

Her document-shredding apparatus had already been transplanted from the working area of her apartment to the kitchen, and it was now standing at the edge of the counter, next to the fateful shoebox. This was Solène's ritual. She had come up with it fairly early in her life, and it had always hit exactly the spot it needed to: whenever a boy disappointed her, she always got rid of every single thing that could possibly remind her of him in some very theatrical way. It was cathartic. The first time she had done this, as a teenager, she had torn everything by hand, but she had ended up with paper cuts and sore fingers, and decided against doing that again. In college, she had chosen to burn the stuff, which had fitted the fact that there had been articles of clothing in the mix, but it had also turned out to be pretty dangerous and frowned upon by the dormitory's security team. She had almost burned herself pretty badly, along other things not all of which were hers. She had actually been afraid of burning the whole building down, and had therefore retired the use of flames after this one time.

After graduation, the need to get rid of sensitive client information, in her line of work, had led her to acquire this wonderful shredder-thingy, which had since then worked its magic on the remnants of a few relationships and as a consequence been consecrated the ultimate method of disposal.

Her glass of wine almost empty, and her dinner still too hot to be eaten right away, Solène finally took a step forward and picked up the first thing inside the box. She considered it for maybe a second before putting it into the shredder. Bzzzt. Gone, the photo-booth pictures they had taken at that bar one night. Another buzzing sound, and gone, the ticket stubs for that show they had gone to together. Gone, that postcard he had sent her from that stupid holiday he had taken with his friends. Gone, that picture of them at that party.

By the time she was done with the content of the box, her dinner was just the right temperature. And the shredded cheese was exactly as stringy as she liked it.