The lights go out and suddenly I’m standing in complete darkness. “Holy crap. That could’ve been so much worse.” I need the lights though. I flip that switch back on and the lights return. It’s down to the last two: the alarm or something else. What if that something else is the cameras and if I leave it on, all of this would be for nothing.

Okay, when I flipped off the lights, that breaker was the second to the top. If I were Viv, the most important thing to me would be the alarm. I would put that as the top breaker. Which means the third breaker has to be okay to turn off. Right?

I lay my fingers on top of the third breaker, the sweat on my fingers leaves a splotchy print on the switch. How would I explain my fingerprints on the breaker switches?

Ugh! Just do it!

I flip the third breaker and close my eyes, waiting for the alarm to go off.

Nothing happens.

If the alarm is silent, I’m doomed. If I do nothing, I’m doomed. Might as well get going on finishing the clean-up. I dig out the jug of bleach, toss it into the bucket, and roll the bucket and the mop over to the kitchen sink. Thankfully we have city water out here so if we do actually lose power, we aren’t without water to drink or to flush.

Carefully, I uncap the bleach and dump some into the bucket. I should’ve thought a little harder this morning about what I was going to wear because I like the outfit I have on and don’t want to get bleach on it. I don’t need any holes in this silk blouse. I turn on the water and use the spray hose to begin filling up the bucket. Only halfway. Maybe not even halfway. It’s not like I have a ton to clean. Just the records room. And hopefully just the floor in there.

I decide to fill the bucket up about a third and then put the spray hose back and turn off the water. I hold onto the mop as I nudge the bucket across the floor. It rolls pretty good until it hits the shards of ceramic from my cup and comes to a rather sharp stop. I’m tempted to clean up the coffee and mug now but on the off chance that someone comes back tonight, I’d rather get caught cleaning up my spill rather than cleaning up the carnage.

I wiggle the bucket a little and finally get around the shard that was stopping the wheel. Unfortunately, the bucket rolls through the coffee and creamer, making tracks across the floor. Just what I need, more to clean.

I reach the basement door and just before I drag all the cleaning stuff downstairs, I remember that I need the key. Sheesh! That would’ve been another irritant but this time I have the energy to go back up if I need to. I just don’t want to. I yank my bottom drawer open, find my keys and slip the ring inside the pocket of my pants. The keys jostle and clang as I open the basement door and slide the mop down the stairs. Once that hits the floor at the bottom, I step down a couple of steps so that I can turn around and get the bucket. The only thing making this easier than last night is that Mike isn’t heaped at the bottom.

I get to the bottom, set the bucket down, grab the mop and make my way to the back. The floor looks okay down here but it’s definitely not as clean as upstairs. I dunk the mop into the bucket and re-mop the floor, wiping up old brown smears of blood that look like they were diluted but not gone. Once I make it to the door to the 2010 Record Room, I see an old puddly smear just under the door on the floor.

My key slides into the keyhole, clacking as I turn it and the knob turns with it. When the door opens inward, my eyes are met with a wide brown smear wrapping around the filing units toward the back of the room. If anyone were to see this, they wouldn’t have to guess what the smear led to. I sniff the air and it’s not bad. The thermostat is on the left side of the door when I get in the room. It looks like it’s set to 65 degrees.

Yeah, let’s turn that puppy down.

I turn it down as far as it will go: 50 degrees. It’s not going to slow the decomposition much, but it’ll give me a little more time to find a way to get him out of here.

I push the bucket inside the room ahead of me. It takes a lot of scrubbing with the mop, but I finally get the blood off the floor. The edges were the worst. Where blood had seeped into the edge of the floor and the wall, well I had to do the best I could. If police came in here with their fancy gadgets, they would know for sure there was blood in here. I just had to hope that I could be somewhere else by then.

I never thought I would have to go elsewhere. I always thought that I would retire in the little town of Kalamazoo, Michigan, but it wasn’t looking too good. It was looking like I was going to have to get my shit together and start looking for another job.

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“Don’t rush to decisions,” I tell myself.

I realize that I’m quick to jump to decisions. Sometimes too quick. My mom always said to just give it a minute and sometimes things take care of themselves. I always felt that the reason why things took care of themselves was because I took care of it. Mom was a type B personality. I am a classic textbook type A. That’s probably why we didn’t see eye to eye. Even after dad left to marry that hussy, Genie, mom was too laid back for my liking. I’d still give anything to be able to talk to her again. I don’t think I would tell her about this little endeavor, but it would’ve been nice to have her to tell me I didn’t deserve to be treated the way that he was treating me.

I finally mop my way back to where Mike is laying, crumpled up in the corner behind the weight of six filing units. I’m tempted to move the filing units to see if he stays in that position. Ya know, rigor and all. I know it’s a dark curiosity, but it’s still a curiosity. I decide that, based on my luck, I shouldn’t move the filing units. I know that if I do, chances are that he will get stuck in a new position and I won’t be able to get him back in. And then what? I’ve heard that coroners have broken people’s arms and legs when they’re trying to reposition the dead. I guess I never thought that rigor could be strong enough to cause someone to break their bones just to move them.

The thought grosses me out. The bile from my stomach threatens to make an appearance but I force it back down. Not today stomach. I just cleaned the floors.

I take in a deep breath and can smell the slightly sweet smell of Mike’s body breaking down. At least I think that’s the smell. I’ll have to Google it later. Maybe it’s not Mike at all. Maybe it’s me or the bleach mixed with something. Maybe I’m delusional.

I finish up and then take one final glance around the filing unit that’s pressing up against Mike. Mike’s eyes are still open but they’re cloudy white. I’ve heard that a body will eventually ooze when they are decomposing. I think I’m going to have to get him out of here before that happens. But take him where? And how? And how am I going to look up this stuff without it looking like I’m guilty of something? Which I am, but I don’t want it to look like I’m guilty.

The thoughts race around in my head and the more I focus on them, the worse they get. There’s a reason why I’m on anti-anxiety meds. I probably need my doctor to up my dose. All things considered.

I shake my arms, shake my legs, and then shake my head. When I’m done, I feel like I can focus on other things, like getting out of here and cleaning the mess upstairs too. “Bye Mike,” I say and then immediately get creeped out. “Ew.”

I push the bucket with the mop, the brown bloody water sloshing in the bucket as I make the way back to the door. I got it as clean as I could, it could’ve been better but here we are. At least it’s not an immediate blood smear right in your face as soon as you come through the door.

I double check that the thermostat is as low as it can go, lock, and close the door behind me. I wish I could dump the bucket out down here but there’s nothing like that in the basement. It’s strictly for record keeping.

I decide to take the bucket up first, step by step, I set the bucket on the step a couple steps up from me, and then keep working my way up the stairs. Once I reach the top and get the bucket a little farther away from the opening, I go back down the stairs and get the mop. When I reach the top, I flick off the light switch, sending the basement back into darkness, and close the door behind me. I race over to the sink and dump the bloody bleach water down the drain. I try my best to rinse out the mop and then refill the bucket with clean bleach water. I have coffee to clean up.

Once the bucket is full, I push it back over to my desk.

Alibi.

I need to have it on record that I was cleaning up coffee with the mop, not blood from downstairs. I hustle over to the maintenance closet and flip back on all the breakers. The air conditioner comes to life, the fridge starts humming again and when I step out from the closet and look up at the camera in the corner, a red light at the bottom starts flashing.

A red light?!? Why didn’t I see the light there before?? I could’ve just flicked off breakers until the light went off. As Mike would say, I’m so stupid. I shrug off the thought and remind myself that kind of behavior is what got Mike killed.

By the time I reach my desk and the mop, the light on the camera has turned green. I guess the red light means that it has power, but the green light means that it’s recording. Good to know. Now.

I bend over and begin the irritating job of picking up the tiny ceramic shards all over the floor. A couple of them poke me in my finger but none draw blood, thankfully. I’ve had my fair share of blood for now. I drop all the pieces into my garbage can and then use a couple of tissues to blot up the spill. I should’ve grabbed some paper towel while I was in the maintenance closet, but I had other things on my mind.

The mop glides effortlessly over the coffee, even though some of it has started to dry. It’s a lot easier to mop up coffee than blood. Even though it has sugary creamer in it. Once I’m finally done, I take the bucket back to the sink for, hopefully, the final time. The bleach water swirls down the drain and then the mop makes a squishing noise as I work on flushing out any remnants of my evening from its fibers.

When I place the mop back into the bucket, it makes a splat noise, and that reminds me of the dry bucket this morning. If the cleaning crew left as late as they did, how in the world did they leave a dry bucket and dry mop?

Unless they replaced the bucket and mop with a different one. No. They wouldn’t, would they?

I’m wrapped up in the swirling thought that this random cleaning crew now has the evidence of my clean-up as I mindlessly push the bucket and mop back into the maintenance closet. I run my hand over my forehead and start to freak out when there’s a knock on the front door.