Sarara Scivyer
It has stained the grout. It’s bleeding between the tiles and I can’t get it out. On my knees, sweat trickling down my back, I scrub.
I scrub and scrub and scrub, but still, it is stubborn. It is thick and red and angry, and it is telling the truth of what I tried so hard to hide.
I bite back the tears that sting my eyes. The tiles are going blurry, but I can’t afford to stop. The anger is gone, the fear has set, and I can’t breathe through the thick fog of panic that is billowing into my lungs.
No doubt my knees are bruised, and my arms are aching from the repetitive movement. I didn’t think there would be so much; I didn’t expect it to spread so far. I always complained about how small the kitchen was, but now it has never felt so big.
I had always hated those handkerchiefs; I always thought they were disgusting. Now they lay in piles, drenched and sticky across the floor. Some are so old the bleach burns through them, leaving them in rips and tatters—a better use than wet and sickly in my pocket.
This ritual of destruction has followed me my whole life, and now it ends with ruined grout and destroyed handkerchiefs.