crandberrytea
The sweater was worn and scratchy. I hated it, an old gift that my mother insisted I wore, so as not to offend someone. I had hidden it away in the back of my closet, succesfully making sure I never had to wear it again.
The sweater was an itchy old magenta thing. The sleeves worn and tattered, the color faded after many years used. It smelt old, and of moth balls. I had buried it in my closet years ago, claiming that I had lost it so I wouldn't have to wear it anymore.