The grease just wouldn’t come off. Why does cleaning up have to be such a chore?
My arms are aching from the forward and back motion, from the pressure I’m applying to the surface.
There’s not even a stain. It just feels, not clean.
Perhaps I’ve really got to use the steel wool. But I hate how it sounds. I hate the way it feels. Just the thought of scrubbing with it gives me chills right down my spine.
The slight cracking, the high pitched noise of friction. The sensation on my fingertips as I pinch the steel wool and feel its fibres, feeling it scratch across itself and the surface of the sink.
I’ve always been to sort to double-wash my hands. To double wash anything, really. Just to be sure.
This time the stakes are higher. The fat and blood have coagulated quickly across the kitchen surfaces. It reeked. Its stubborn presence and smell took all the air out of the room. I guess I should have planned this better. You’d think I’d know better after all my years of cleaning up after these guys. I’m an expert by now. I’d always show up with a good amount of bleach, disinfectants and all the tools one might need to erase any presence of unfortunate incidents. It’s not just about cleaning up. It’s also about resetting the scene. To paint over the bare canvas again and breathe new life into it.
Sometimes I’d bake cookies. Sometimes I’d bring along the sprays that Swedish real estate agents love to use and take so much pride in - it’s their secret technique, filling the space with their own special blend of eu de kanelbulle without the hassle of baking.
In my line of work, it’s important for me to make a mess and clean up again after the initial wipe. My father always insisted that it’s this step that makes a cleaner the professional that they are. It’s all in the chemistry. The smell of bleach is so distinct, it’s necessary to make sure it goes undetectable. The space should feel lived in, as if no blood was spilled.
I paused with the scrubbing and slumped in the sofa, using a pair of chopsticks to bring the bacon I’ve just fried into my mouth. Crispy bacon. Comfort. I put my feet up on the sofa table, leaned back and tossed my head up, taking in the ceiling and the crystal chandelier that hangs from it.
I watched in wonder as the sunlight seeped in through a gap in the curtains and hit its little dangling crystals. Rainbows, dancing. What beauty in this tragedy of a situation.
This is the third call in two days I’ve taken. They’re starting to speed things up. Pressure from the higher ups, apparently. Much erasing to do in the coming weeks.
Working with the secret police has its perks. I’d never have to worry about being erased or not getting any rations for the week. Ever since mom disappeared, it’s just been dad and I. And now, it’s just me.