The Suitcase

She strode through the alleyway almost three steps at a time. She was in a hurry but couldn't afford the bus fare home. It was the shortest route she knew. She had an anxiety thing about leaving her apartment unattended. It wasn't in a safe area. As she couldn't afford adequate front door locks, much less an alarm system, getting back to something maybe unexpected made her feel anguished-ridden.
There was a scruffy angular metal skip about two-thirds of the way through. As it was big, horribly heavy, crudded with rust, lodged almost into the ground, imposing an affront to anything attractive which seemed forced away, she hardly gave it a second glance - except for one thing that caught the corner of her left eye. It made her freeze the pace, draw her feet together, and compel her to slowly turn her head. Her eyes stared at the object positioned upside down. It was an open suitcase, open like an opened downward pair of scissors, and sat on the top of the other rubbish that crowded the skip. There was nothing about it to write home about. Its pattern was a drab light and brown chequered variety, so plain it made you feel you'd just swallowed the remains of boiled potatoes without any seasoning.
She stepped over and stared at it. The stare crept into minutes. She began to think practical thoughts about it.
I could do with a suitcase, she felt resigned, but this one looks so ughh, repulsive. Who would want it? No wonder it's been tossed out like a rotten rag.
Her stare became triggered with scorn yet the shabby receptacle locked her gaze, felt sudden, mystical. She darted her eyes away for a few seconds until they diverted once more to the object.