All Things Go Bump In The Night

The Polished Floor

"Scrub harder you fool! It has to be absolutely spotless! No... It has to be absolutely perfect!"

His mother's words rang through his head over and over again, reminding him to continue scrubbing harder, and harder, and harder...

Bleach burned his eyes and as much as they watered, he didn't stop. Chemical scents burned his nostrils and every pore of his body begged him to stop, but the sting of his back overpowered that feeling, and his mind pushed him forward. His mother surely wanted everything to be absolutely perfect, but she didn't hestitate to paint the granite countertops or wooden floor with splatters of red anytime she felt fit.

"This won't be like last time," He reminded himself hopelessly.

He said that everytime.... And it made no difference. Mother always found something wrong somewhere, even if she had just brought it in. And imperfection only meant one thing...

Discipline

Every inch of the house had to be in immaculate condition. Every crawl space, corner, and inaccessible area. Mother's whip reminded him of this everyday. He only flinched when his nail broke against the unforgiving white tile. He looked at his reflection that sparkled on floor.

He watched the tears streaming down his face and quickly wiped them away before they fell on the floor and spoiled all his hard work. He forced himself smile and pretend that he was happy. At least he had finished his work. But even as he stared at his curly brown hair that was patted down on his forehead with sweat and his soft dark brown eyes that were red with tears, he only saw ugliness.

Surely if he cleaned himself up he would look better, but he only saw what his mother saw in him. Ugliness, imperfection, stupidity, insignificance, failure, cowardice, and a bratty little accident.

He squeezed the rag in his hand, allowing the bleach to run down his hands. Why did Mother hate him so? He would never know. Maybe it was for his dark hair, eyes and skin. Maybe she hated him for that. Or maybe she didn't hate him. Maybe she despised him. If she didn't despise him, she wouldn't of had the entire living room tiled so that he would have to single handily remove all the furniture, scrub the tiles, put it all back and get himself cleaned up and by the door waiting for her arrival in four hours.

It was something a nine year-old should never have to do.

Then he remembered that he hadn't got himself ready. If Mother ever saw him in such a disgraceful state, should would surely have his head. He would have to get himself washed up and ready immediately. He checked the time. It was 3:42pm, exactly 18 minutes before mother got home.

He got up quickly, scratching his fingernail on the slick, porcelain surface of the tile. The delicate and fragile nail, broke on impact. The boy flinched, not so much from pain as to fear and he snatched the nail off the ground.... But it was too late. Droplets of blood had got on the ground, spoiling all his hard work.

No no no no no! He whispered quietly to himself, knowing that he wasn't allowed to make any sort of noise above a whisper unless he was speaking to Mother. He got on his hands and knees and scrubbed like his life depended on it. He knew it practically did.

Finally, it was back to being clean and shiny after 7 minutes back-breaking labour. The boy relaxed once more for a moment before realizing that time was almost up. Mother would be home any minute now. He hadn't even washed up!

Mother was going to kill him.

He took a quick look around the living room, just to make sure it was absolutely perfect, just the way she wanted it.... And he cringed.