Final wishes (solo)

((ooc. Continued from Dirty Boys ))

Bleach, carpet shampoo and clothing detergent. Running water, carpet cleaner and washing machine. White, white, white. Pop, paint. Crinkle, plastic. Rip, tape. In the centre, Cafas. He had not left his room yet, but that was fine, he wasn't hungry, and it had only passed between light and dark once or twice. He thought twice, it was early into the twice though, so it wasn't too bad. He'd gotten all the supplies he needed on his one and only outing. He hadn't eaten, he hadn't had a drink, he didn't need them. Death, if anything, would come as a blessing. Cafas wasn't thinking, he was just doing. His mind was blank.

The previous day

Scrub. Scrub scrub scrub. The grime was lifting slowly from the tiles. The grime that didn't exist. There was no grime, his room had been cleaned for him, but he scrubbed anyway. He was so blank that he didn't notice, nor did he care that he was bleaching perfectly glistening tiles. He moved slowly, leaving a steady trail of tears behind him as he worked. The tiles grew cleaner and cleaner in his mind. Having worked from one side of the bathroom to the other Cafas was satisfied and stood to examine it. Every tile glistened. The bench was white as pure snow, and all the metal surfaces could have doubled as mirrors.

an hour later

Clothes were sorted. Blacks, whites, colours, denim, fragiles, sheets. The machine beeped to life and detergent powder was added. Whites first. They were piled in. All were dishonestly aquired, but it didn't matter, he only stole from those who could afford it. He stood perfectly still and watched it. The machine’s display counted down. One hour. Whites to the drier, colours next. Again he waited. It had been almost a full day. He wasn't going to come back, Cafas could tell. It was exactly the same frightened run tat he'd gotten when he told a friend in Sydney that he was a mutant. Colours were done, whites were dry. Blacks next, resume cycle.

Five hours more[/i]

Vacuum buzzed loudly, picking up nothing, but Cafas vacuumed onward. Under the beds; there was some dirt. A penny flew into the bag less vacuum hold from under the nightstand. He moved onward, barefoot so that he didn't dirty anything up. Some more dirt under the spare bed. To him though, it seemed like the whole room was made of dust and rubbish. He had to push their lines back, destroy them, eradicate them. They were the ultimate enemy now. They had driven from him the thing he wished to never lose more than anything. They would suffer for his suffering. They would die..

An hour post genocide.

Carpet shampooer. Returning the carpet to white. Immaculate, freshly laid white. Cleaner than even the hall outside. It had to be purged, to remove any traces of what had been, of what could have been, of what should have been. He wished only that his mind were so easily cleansed. The images of Calley sleeping returned. He shouldn't have watched him for so long, he should have been cleaning, then he would still be here. No. He didn't exist. Cafas had to forget. He did the whole room twice for good measure.

Sundown day one.[/u]

Light buzzed gently. Curtains were drawn, the room smelled of toxins. He folded. Folded and folded. Any piece of fabric not connected to something was folded into a neat square. He made sure, he used a tape measure. Then, put into drawers. Beds were made, no wrinkle to be found. The whole rest of the afternoon ironing had made sure of that. There would be no untidy cloth in his room. Nothing to remind him of it. It was nothing, what did he mean it?

Nine PM[/u]

Glass was scrubbed, first outside, then inside. Wiped and wiped again until it was invisible. So perfectly clean it could not ever be faulted. Not ever. Then, the toilet. Bleach, soap, spare toothbrush, everything. Not an inch of the porcelain was left uncared for. The smell of chemicals was overpowering now. But he would not give in. No, that was not even an option, it was a silly thing to think. He would not be defeated, not again, not so completely. What defeat, no that is forgotten.

Midnight[/u]

Tape. So much tape. It stuck plastic sheeting to the floor, made sure the skirting boards would be safe. The whole room was now plastic wrapped, only the tape left to apply. Tape went everywhere, on the glass, on the wood, on the doorhandles. Everywhere. Special tape. Painter’s tape it had said. That was what he needed. But he had only just begun with it, it would take time. He would have to reach very high places indeed before it was all taped up.

Dawn, day two.

Pop. Stir. Tip. Roll. Apply. One bucket, one coat. His roller had a special pole. It let him get to high places. Yes, high places. He spread the white. Everywhere the white it went. When he was done, the other side was dry. One more coat of white all around. Then a nice feature wall. Baby blue, not to standy-outy, but still nice. Two coats on that then two of white on the other three walls and the ceiling. Yes, yes it was almost done. Now just one more thing. Plastic was removed, binned, tape formed a large ball, binned, furniture was set back in place, mirrors re-hung, paintings re-hung, everything back in pristine condition. All clothes away, all dirt removed, everything in its place. There was no sign of what had been.

But

The cleanliness reminded him of someone.

'No...'

The order reminded him of someone.

'Please no...'

The smell of absolute purity reminded him of someone.

'Oh god no...'

The blue, that perfect, adorable blue, reminded him of someone.

"CAAAAAALLEEEEEEEEYYYYYY!!!"

And so he cried, and the crying, the uncontrollable sobbing, reminded him of someone.

Someone he'd lost.


((Continues in Sir? Your face is leaking. ))