ANONYMOUS

MINDEN, LA

OCTOBER 1990

I like cleaning.

It is a transformational process. A room that can go from total disarray to order? That is my kind of thing. Most people look down upon janitorial work, but I think it is one of the most important jobs in society. It is not a symbol of failure or poverty. It is of humility and discipline.

I do my work and continue to code in my spare time, but the bills need to be paid. I don’t miss office work at all. Ans I want to do some renovations to the house, perhaps build a secret room that has noise-canceling walls. I am saving up to buy the proper materials. To continue my work out of state, I’ll need to figure out a way to keep Rush safe as well.

I doubt if I ever plan to go back into the video game industry, but I do take my son to the arcades every Friday. We are lost in there for hours in the screens, and then we have pizza and ice cream with hot fudge afterwards—a treat after me making sure he gets in all of his fruits, veggies, and carbohydrates. Those are the days he looks forward to the most; including myself. He always eats everything but the crusts, and when he smiles, there is sticky cheese on his chin. Those are the days I feel normal.

Those are the days I am loved.

I know I need to send Rush to school eventually, but I can’t have people prying into my business. I’ve managed to forge a birth certificate and social security card for him, but I have no other documents. But I really want him to be able to make friends. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he had a deeply lonely childhood like I did. He’s mostly a shy kid, just like I was when I was his age, but I want him to have someone to play with. So I’ve started looking into some places in the area—at least those within my budget.

I’ve already taught my son how to write and count and tie his shoes. I get him books (not with just pictures) and make sure he only watches thirty minutes of television a day. Some nights, we go over basic addition, multiplication, and subtraction. I can tell math is going to be one of his favorite subjects. He absolutely loves numbers.

There is a preschool named Rising Steps only twenty minutes from my house. They offer an after school program. It took me three months to decide whether to enroll him or not. But I can’t have him exposed yet to what I do, not until he is old enough to fully understand. His fourth birthday was last month; he is asking me more questions than before, questions that I cannot answer. He is a very smart, bright child. So I must do my part. I must keep him in a safe place while I do my work. I am well aware of the risks. The moment anyone says a thing; I will withdraw him from this place and try to homeschool him. But that is an absolute last resort.

And there is plenty of work for me to do.

I buy Rush a new backpack and school clothes. I pack him a nutritious lunch. He fusses with me as I try to get him dressed for his first day and brush his teeth thoroughly.

He clings to me as we walk up to the front door of the school. He is wearing my baseball cap backwards, and strands of his curly hair stick out from the faded rim. The teachers are waving and welcoming the parents and students coming in. I kneel in front of him as he loudly shuffles his feet against the uneven pavement. I know how nervous he is.

“Are you ready?” I softly ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t wanna go.”

”I know, buddy. I know. But you are going to have so much fun here. You are going to make a bunch of new friends and learn incredible things. More than I can teach you.” I smile. “And I’ll be here to pick you up by three. So you don’t have to be afraid.”

Rush folds his arms. “Why can’t I stay home with you?”

“Because I have to go to work, buddy. And that’s no fun, being cooped up in the house all day.” I gaze at the ground for a moment. “I know it’s scary, Rush, but you are being brave. And that makes me very, very proud.”

He doesn’t look too convinced. “No.”

”No? You don’t want to even try?” My voice falls into a whisper. “You don’t want to meet your new friends or teachers?”

“What about pizza nights?!”

“That’s not going anywhere. We’ll always have that, okay? Always.”

He frowns. “But they don’t have pizza here.”

“You don’t know that.” I fight back a chuckle and gesture to his lunchbox. “I made your favorite. Ham and cheese sandwich, with no crusts. And make sure to eat your carrot sticks too.” I raise an eyebrow. “All of them. If you don’t, you’ll turn bright orange like Ernie from Sesame Street.”

Rush giggles, clamping his mouth with his hands. But there it is. There is that wonderful, glorious smile. The only reason for me to live. The only thing that matters to me in this world. He is my world. “No!” he yells. “I won’t be orange. You’re orange!”

”Me?” I snort. “Not me.”

”Yeah, you are.” He sticks out his tongue.

“Oh, well,” I straighten up and hold out my hand. “You can tell me about your first day as soon as school ends, okay?”

He hesitates, before his small palm holds onto mine. And as we head up the steps together and enter the building, I try not to look at my reflection in the glass doors.

* * * * * * * *

I dump my mop into the brown water, ring it out, and begin the edge of the long hallway of the second floor of the nursing home.The loud noise of the clock echoes in my ears. My arms burn, but I keep my head extremely low. It’s an extremely warm day, and sweat gathers at the tip of my nose, before trailing down my chin. There is a clacking of heels, before someone bumps into me. My bucket tops over and splashes on the ground. An older woman, with gray in her hair, gives me dirty look. She brushes away at her blouse.

“Watch where you’re going,” she snaps.

”I’m so sorry ma’am,” I say. “Are you alright?”

The woman gives me a dirty look, before continuing down the hallway after making her way around the growing puddle. I don’t pay much mind to this, and quickly forget about it as staff and other people file in. But when I am finally at the end of the hallway do I hear some loud arguing coming from one of the rooms. I am wiping the windows down and am cleaning up the ledge where there is a loud crash. I set down my cloth and slowly follow the noise.

An elderly man, whose frail body barely makes a dent against the sheets, is struggling to pick up his fallen tray. The woman whom I saw earlier is smoking a cigarette. She gives him a cold glare as she paces back and forth across the room, her arms folded behind her back. She steps over the fallen pills, her shoes crushing them into fine powder.

”I can’t believe you, Uncle Frank,” she snorts. “You promised me at least fifty percent of the will. That was my money. And then when I speak to my lawyer, come to find out that I only receive twenty five percent.” Her cold blue eyes settle on the man, who is wheezing. “You ought to be ashamed.”

“I need those,” he tries to say.

“You don’t need shit.” She roughly grabs him by the shirt, twisting it with her fist. “I need my money. And I want it now. Including the life insurance policy you named me as a beneficiary on.” She slams her fist against the wall, right by his head, causing him to flinch. “I want every cent in my bank account my today, or you will be speaking to my lawyer.”

The man’s breaths are shaky.

I watch from the shadows.

“Victoria,” the man weakly says. “I need those meds. Please, can you call in a nurse?”

She delivers a blow to his face. It echoes across the room, like thunder. It is the loudest sound that I have ever heard in my life, and I can see blood trickling down his nose. As she exits the room and heads down the stairwell, my ears are ringing. The rag slips from my hands and lands on the ground as my shoes loudly echo across the freshly polished floor. The hallway is mostly empty. I will let a nurse know when I return. I will return quickly.

The stairwell is dimly lit. The stairs themselves are old, but I tread carefully as I exit the building. Victoria enters the parking lot, her long gray curls bouncing around her shoulders. She puts on her shades and applies a fresh coat of bright red lipstick, which matches the color of her nails. I see the car that she is heading to. It is a BMW. She has a diamond ring on her left finger.

She gets in her car.

I do the same, putting my keys in the ignition, hearing my engine roar to life. My face is very hot and sweaty, and I watch as she makes a right on the road. I do the same, following her for a moments. We get on the highway. I switch lanes from time to time, but I memorize her license plate number. My calloused fingers tap against the steering wheel.

She eventually pulls up to a nice neighborhood, with lots of large, towering houses. I park on the furthest side of the road as she finally gets out, stepping out over the sidewalk. My scalp tingles. I seem to glide over the pavement. I have my knife in the pocket of my uniform, but I don’t think I’ll be needing such things. No, I won’t need them.

I slip on my cleaning gloves.

Victoria reaches her front door, muttering to herself as she fumbles with her keys. I eye her driveway. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else home, but I will take extra precaution. She then proceeds to open her garage door. She has just begun to step inside when I roughly pull her into a headlock. She tries to scream, but I watch her eyes flutter close as she loses consciousness.

Her large house is close to the edge of the woods. I go through the backyard to avoid any neighbors. My shoes crunch against the grass as I carry her through the branches, stepping through bushes and maneuvering around the trees. As we enter deeper in the trees, the heat inside of me rises. My chest is lit ablaze.

Victoria finally awakes, slumped up against a tree. I’m lighting a cigarette, smoke rising in the air. She scrambles back upon seeing me, leaves in her hair. Her bloodshot eyes dart around. I only have my fists and my boots.

“You like to push those who are weaker than you around, eh?” I ask, taking another puff of my cigarette. As I toss it to the ground, I give her a sideways glance, a smirk forming on my lips. I can’t help but grin. This is all so comical to me—the shift in attitude. “You like to leave bruises on their skin?”

”Please,” she whimpers. “What do you want? Is it money? I can give you money.”

I study her. She’s considering running in those pathetic heels. She won’t get far. I know she won’t. “That all you think about?”

Tears stream down Victoria’s face. “Please.”

”I’mma show you,” I say. “I’mma show you what it’s like to be treated like nothin’ but dirt.”

She begins to wail, but I don’t give her the chance to. I make sure to break each and every bone in her body till she doesn’t have a form left. I smash her face in with my boot until all her teeth are missing—only bloody gums. I am energized. My eyes are wide. I scream at her, you want to push people around? I’ll show you how to push people around.

Her face is puffy. But I’m not yet done with her. I drag her to the nearby river by her hair. She ain’t really got no more fight in her, but is still weakly hitting at my shoulders as I place my gloved hands around her neck and squeeze. She’s kicking, squirming as I gradually submerge her headfirst. Bubbles rise to the surface as I watch her sink below, her long gray hair rising like snakes.

When she stops moving, I finally let go.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Her body is still floating in the gentle waves. My uniform is soaked and muddy, but I change into a clean one once I make it back to my car. I stuff my gloves and my wet clothes in a plastic Safeway bag. On the way back to work, I stop by the local deli to order a large sandwich with turkey, pickles, tomatoes and horseradish sauce. I’m starving.

As I enter the nursing home, I see that Mr. Frank is being laid out on the stretcher. An ambulance is already waiting at the front of the building, its lights flashing. There is chaos inside, and I hear a staff member sobbing as she is loudly being reprimanded in the hallway by one of my supervisors. Apparently, no one has seen me leave and return. The elders are mumbling to themselves, with staff trying to urge them return back to their rooms.

I sit on a bench and remove the paper to my enormous sandwich, which is cut in half. I’m about to take a bite when the sound of a cane tapping against the floor gets my attention. I look up and slowly smile at the elderly woman’s freckled face. I recognize her. She usually attends bingo nights on Tuesdays.

“Good afternoon, Miss Flores.”

She gives me a polite nod, her dark eyes meeting mine. She doesn’t usually talk much, only when her grandchildren usually visit. I scoot over and pat the empty seat next to me. She slowly sits next to me, before releasing a cough. Her braid hangs past her shoulder.

”Hey. Would you like to join me for lunch?” I quietly ask. “You can have my sandwich.”

A thoughtful look crosses her face, before she nods twice. I hand her the other half, and we silently sit side by side, eating as the EMTs come in and outside of Mr. Frank’s room.

* * * * * * * *

There is a frozen chicken thawing in the sink.

I make sure to fill it up all the way completely with warm water, before turning off the faucet. I take a quick smoke break and light up my cigarette. By tomorrow morning, it should be ready to sit in marinated seasonings, then placed into the oven. I have an entire drawer of different seasonings—from rosemary to cayenne pepper to oregano and curry.

My own two hands are wrinkled from scrubbing. Endless scrubbing. Scrubbing the counters, the floors, the walls, the carpet. I rinse, then repeat. I’ve started using more natural substitutes for bleach, as it is very strong on the nose. I’ve vacuumed and mopped, taken out the trash. Now I just need to do the dishes after I’m done with the floor.

These are indeed very tough stains.

I’ve had to run to the store several times to buy trash bags, ropes, and plenty of gloves. Tomorrow’s dinner is not the only thing that lays beneath a layer of water. In a plastic bin just below the dining room table, my knives lie in disinfectant fluids. By the next morning, all remaining gunk should be a thing of the past. Cleaning is very therapeutic.

I store my shovels behind the house after cleaning the dirt from them. I’ve made sure to vacuum my car inside and out; so not a single hair remains on the mats and seats. I clean my house, but I don’t do it too clean. I make sure to leave some resemblance of disorganization. And I plan to air the place out so that such scents don’t make the place overwhelming. It’s a rookie mistake, actually.

A very rookie mistake.

I go to the stove and eat the last bit of remaining macaroni and cheese from the pot, licking the spoon, before wiping up the crumbs Rush left behind on his plate. Delicately, I run my fingers across the latest picture that my son drew for me in crayon. I attach it on the fruit shaped magnet on my fridge and observe it with the others. There is a fly on the wall. I crush it to bits, feeling the dried shell crumble between my fingers.

Squeezing out a wet rag, I get on my knees and begin to scrub the floorboards again, soapy bubbles clinging to my red knuckles. My plaid button down shirt is covered in stains, and the hemline of my jeans are damp. Strands of my matted hair keep falling down my face, so I finally use a rubber band to tie it back. I never knew it had gotten this long. I am indeed overdue for a haircut.

There’s a small thud upstairs.

It’s coming from my boy’s room.

Immediately, I stop scrubbing. The house is dark, with only the exception of the TV on. As I stand up, the wet floor is slimy beneath my bare feet. The rag slips out of my hand and lands with a large plop in my soap bucket. Slowly, I begin to make my way up the steps, gripping the railing with my left wet hand. When I reach the door, I pause for a moment. I wait. I listen. There is a sniffle. Another thud.

I push the door open and turn on the light.

My son is curled up in a corner of his room, underneath his rocking chair. He is shivering, but the fresh scent of soap hangs in the air. He releases a high pitched scream when he sees my shadow against the star printed wall. There is dark red on his face, and my stomach tightens at the sight. His large brown eyes are round with fear, and his cheeks are streaked with tears. It kills me inside. It hurts.

I crouch down to his level. “Rush.”

He remains frozen, still staring at me.

”Rush,” I repeat, this time, more softly. “Come to me.” Holding my damp arms out, I inch closer. “Come here, baby. It’s just me. It’s alright.”

”Monster,” my son says. “There’s a monster.”

“Where?”

He places a thumb in his mouth. ”Closet.”

I give a sideways glance towards the pitch black double doors, before making a gesturing motion with my arms again. Crickets loudly chirp outside from his bedroom windowsill. “Come here.”

For a while he hesitates, before finally making his way over to me. His tiny bare feet patter against the lumpy carpet, which is littered with his toys and books. I finally scoop him up and stand, rocking him back and forth. Using the end of my shirt, I gently begin to wipe the red from his upper lip. He often gets nosebleeds when he is stressed. He loudly sniffs again as we gaze at each other eye to eye.

“There is a monster?” I ask.

Rush nods.

”Then let me take a look.”

His small fingers dig into my sleeve as I open his closet door and yank the chain to switch on the lightbulb above. Nothing but all his clothes and shoes, in a somewhat neat pile. Rush leans his head against mine as I peek under his bed, look in every single corner. His teddy bear is on the floor, so I bend down and make sure to hand it to him.

”No monsters,” I quietly say. “I don’t see ‘em.”

He continues to suck on his thumb as I carry him to the hallway bathroom and perch him on the bathroom sink. His face is scrunched up, and as I wipe it down with a damp paper towel, he begins to cry. A deep ache settles in my chest, and as I pick him up, he starts to hiccup. For several moments, I rock him back and forth in my arms, slowly patting his back.

”Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m scared,” he wails.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

He nods, continuing to sob. After grabbing a handful of paper towels, I shut off the light and head downstairs, my bare feet causing the treads to squeak. His little heart is beating so quick it seems like it’s ready to leap out of his chest. But I hold him. I hold my boy tight. I sit down on the sofa in the family room and rub circles of comfort across his back. I want to ask him about his dream, but I’m surprised I’m too afraid too. I don’t know why myself.

“Alright, baby. Alright. I got you,” I whisper. “I got you. Don’t be scared, love. Don’t be.”

His cries echo in the room.

“It’s okay,” I gently say. “It’s okay.”

Rush hiccups. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m here.”

He coughs uncontrollably.

I scoot backwards as far as I can against the sofa cushion and bend my knees, keeping him in some sort of cocoon. He cries and cries, and I wipe the snot from his face. It deeply pains me to see him in this such fear. My shirt is soon drenched with his tears. I really to get him a nightlight by his bed.

”I’m not going to leave you. I’m here.”

“Don’t leave, don’t leave!” he screams. His eyes keep darting to the dark hallway. “No!”

”I’m not going to leave you, buddy.” As I repeat this, my voice cracks. “I’d never do such a thing. I’ll never abandon you. I won’t let anyone ever hurt you or take you away. I’ll protect you from every single monster out there. I swear it. I swear it on my life. No one will ever come between us.”

Rush is still coughing, but his sobs are slowly dying down. I continue to lightly rock him back and forth, humming quietly. His heartbeat is starting to slow. I shift my legs and exhale, surprised to feel water beading up in my own eyes. I blink. He is only four years old. He is too young to be worried of such things. I wonder what has frightened him so. Whoever is responsible at that school, I shall make them pay dearly for it.

I will make them suffer.

“You won’t need to be scared. Ever. I’m here.”

“N-n-no monsters?” Rush finally raises his head to stare at me. His round nose is bright red, and his mouth is covered in snot. I use the crumpled napkin from the bathroom in my hands to wipe it up. He rubs his eyes with his pajama sleeves. I take his palm and lightly kiss the top of his knuckles. He gazes at me.

”None.”

His large eyes go back up the dark stairs as he points. “M-monsters—”

”Hey,” I softly say. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay here with you. They not comin’ near us. No way.”

Rush nods. I grab a nearby quilt and wrap around the both of us. He’s much more exhausted now in my arms, although he’s fighting to keep his own eyes open. I lean my head sideways against the sofa. I still haven’t finished cleaning the floor yet. But my boy is all that matters. I curl up in a ball, and we gaze at each other, face to face. His small fingers trace my nose, mouth, eyebrows. When I make a silly face, he giggles.

“I can’t sleep either. How about we stay up together and watch cartoons?” I whisper. “I can make you some hot chocolate. With extra marshmallows and whipped cream.” Normally I don’t let him have sugar that often, but this is an emergency.

“And chocolate syrup?”

I faintly smile at him. “Yeah.”

Rush pokes my upper lip. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That line.” He squints his right eye, just barely visible from the dim TV light. “Right there.”

”That’s a scar. You know what a scar is?”

Rush shakes his head.

”It’s a mark that comes after an accident.”

“Like a big Band-Aid?” He lightly touches it again, before snuggling closer towards me. I draw the quilt around him to keep him warm.

”Sort of.”

“How’d you get it?”

”Hmmm. I never told you, did I?”

Rush eagerly shakes his head again.

”When I was six years old, I begged my father removed the training wheels from my bicycle. I wanted to be like the neighborhood kids.” I take a deep breath. “I was tryin’ to impress some of the older boys. There’s this big hill nearby our house. They dared me to go down without using the handles for a nickel. I lost two of my front teeth, broke my wrist, and got that mark. All from goin’ headfirst in a tree.”

My son’s eyes widens. “Did they give it to you?”

”Yeah. When I got home from the hospital.”

”Wow,” he exclaims in awe. “Cool!”

“Eh,” I ruffle the top of his curly hair. “I don’t think it was worth it. I was in pain for weeks.”

Rush tries to hold back another yawn, but fails. “When I get big, I’m going to do stuff like that.” He grins. “I’m going to do stunts.”

”You are, aren’t you?”

”Like on TV!”

There is a deep lump forming in my throat. His eyes are still a bit puffy from crying. I watch him gradually doze off in my arms; a peaceful expression replacing the terrified one only just moments before. I caress the side of his sleeping face—one that resembles too much of his mother’s. One that I am unwilling to look at, but am forced to. I shield him from the dark. I keep the monsters away from him. I bury my face in his hair.

”I’ll protect you,” I whisper over and over again in his ear. “I’ll protect you. I’ll protect you.”

* * * * * * *

Tito’s Diner.

Established in 1949. Known for their simple old fashioned burgers, the joint was a hotspot in the early sixties. It has had long host of owners. It was the regular go-to place for my classmates from school. I haven’t been there a lot, not even when I used to travel in and out of state. I haven’t really left Louisiana for a while, but I’m thinking that a trip is long overdue. But my work is not finished.

Not exactly yet.

So I park my car by the side of the road.

There is a regular that has caught my eye.

He’s not a bad looking guy. Tall, slim with an athletic build. He walks with an air of confidence that I haven’t seen with a lot of people. He orders the same thing on the menu. He doesn’t have a car, but usually takes the bus. Sometimes, he paces up and down the sidewalk, almost like he is waiting for someone. Yet, he seems have nowhere to go. He walks around this town in circles, wearing bright white socks with flip flops.

I know I must be careful. I usually am, but I know I must much more than usual. I read the newspapers each and every day, alongside listening the radio. I drive by multiple times, sometimes circling back to get a feel for the area. It sounds strange, given that I’ve grown up here, but the times have changed.

This man exits the restaurant. He pauses, standing in front of the sweltering heat, fanning away a couple of flies with his hands. After stretching his back, he proceeds to walk down the sidewalk for a moment. As his shadow turns around a corner, I shift my car into drive.

The man stops walking as I pull up next to him and roll down my window. I deliver a friendly smile and wave at him. The AC is on full blast, but my button down shirt is glued to my skin.

“Hey,” I gently call.

The man glances at me, confused for a moment, and then proceeds to turn away. My smile fades for a moment, but I ease up on the brake to let my car roll forward.

“Where you goin’ pal?”

He gives me a blank look.

“You need a ride? Where you headed?”

“Baton…” The man frowns. He has a very thick accent. He narrows his eyes. “Baton Rouge.”

”Baton Rouge? I’m headin’ up there right now to visit family,” I say, wiping my sweaty forehead. “The bus isn’t scheduled to come for another half an hour.” I lean against the steering wheel. “I could use the company. Why don’t you hop in?” I force another smile. “There is plenty of room.”

The man gives me a cold stare. “I take bus.”

My fingers dig into the seat. “You sure? In this heat? C’mon. I can take you there.”

He hesitates.

I run my tongue over my dried, cracked lips. “What’s your name?”

”Alessio.”

“Baton Rouge is two hours away from here.” I lower my voice. “I couldn’t…couldn’t bear to see you walk most the way.”

Alessio raises an eyebrow. “Why you care?”

”Because you just look like you need help,” I answer, before cheerfully smiling. “That’s all.”

He quickly shakes his head, before continuing to head to the bus stop. I watch him disappear and let my car idle in the road for a moment, before finally speeding off, dust rising in the air. I fling off my hat and toss it on the passenger seat, my breaths shaky.