No One But Her
Photo by Ian O’Neill
She leaned over the sink, the last of the towels draped across the edge to dry. Rust colored drops trickled down the white porcelain reminding her she wasn’t finished yet. She arched her back, stretching out her muscles and cracking the last few vertebrae, but it offered little relief.
She couldn’t relax, couldn’t slow down, not until the job was done or she knew she’d never have the strength to finish. Anxiety and adrenaline pricked every nerve, spurring her forward. She rinsed the rag again and grabbed the bottle of bleach. The fumes seared her throat, scorching her lungs, but she slopped it over another section and scrubbed and wiped and poured and scrubbed and wiped.
It would eventually be enough.
It had to be.
Every splash, every swipe of the rag, burned a little more of him from her mind. There may never be enough solvents to erase the stains he’d left on her; there weren’t enough rags in the world for that mess. But his memory would be wiped clean of this house, of this floor, of this rag.
No one would ever understand. No one would ever know.
No one but her.