Bleach

Sarah hummed to herself as she hung her wet clothes to dry on the rack. One by one she took them from her basket, placing each carefully on the five taut steel wires, making sure they had the room they needed, stretching them just so. The morning sun warmed her skin pleasantly, and Sarah smiled. The clothes would dry quickly.

Her nose tingled, filled with the fresh smell of summer and flowery soap and sharp bleach. It was a clean smell, a new smell. Sarah liked it.

She was hanging the last piece when her arm stretched too far. A twinge of pain across her ribs, her sleeve pulled too far back. Almost immediately, she replaced the long sleeve as she did countless times before, too quickly for anyone to see.

Sarah stopped humming.

She took a deep breath as she stared at her long, tidy sleeve, the same as every dress in her closet. The silence felt heavy, oppressive. Sarah always hated silence, even this one. 

She breathed deep, feeling her nose tingle with soap and summer and sharp bleach. The smell made her smile again.

Clumsily, almost like it was her first time, she folded her sleeves up to her shoulders. The too-pale arms she revealed were strong and dappled.

She took one last look at the rack before shifting a few shirts an inch or two so they will dry without wrinkles. There were no wrinkles in Sarah’s house. Not anymore.

For the first time in seven years, the house was clean. For the first time in seven years, the house was empty. She has stayed up since last night making it so, cleaning every inch of the place - washing the floor, cleaning the walls, taking off posters and throwing away boxes and boxes of old, irrelevant knickknacks. 

A collection of empty, exotic whiskey bottles, an old and smelly footstool, a pair of wrinkled suits, a dozen pairs of pants and two dozen shirts.

The whole time she hummed to keep away the silence. He always hated when she hummed. Sarah always hated silence, even this one.

The house smelled like absence and Sarah breathed it deep - breathed soap and summer and bleach.

The first thing to know about doing laundry is you need to care about your clothes. Colors and Whites and Darks, Roughs and Softs, each has different needs, different ways they want to be treated. Taking care of those needs is effort, one many people are loath to spend on clothes. On something they own.

They buy cheap detergent and put everything on the same plan, mix their piles or forget the conditioner, thinking that’s good enough. That their shirts will never fade, their pants will never tear, their whites will always stay as crisp and fresh as the day they bought them.

They won’t. Laundry is care and it’s effort, every single day. You need to invest- splurge on the detergent, use the gentlest plan, check your pockets for stray paper, clean stains by hand if you have to, but you need to care.

Because if you don’t, if you neglect your clothes-

The hammer felt so good in her hands.

The sun was setting as Sarah finally reached her last load, taking out her wet darks and replacing them with her dirty whites. She was closing the machine’s door when she remembered. 

She was still wearing a white dress.

The same white dress from last night.

She hasn’t even had time to take a shower yet. She wanted one, for hours, but the house was more important. It needed to be made clean. Needed to be made empty.

With trembling hands, Sarah unbuttoned her once white dress. Irregular spots of deep, dark red covered it like spilled wine and it smelled of iron, and sweat and tears. She took it off, revealing mottled skin, fresh purple sharing space with aging blue and old yellow in a tapestry of his hands.

The bruises hurt, but the pain was distant and familiar. It has walked besides her for the past seven years, and as she held her ruined dress in her hands she barely noticed it. 

No, not ruined, she realized on a closer look. It could be saved

Sarah smiled, and hummed as she washed her dress in the sink. She hummed as she put it in the machine, cold and wet and smelling sharp, hummed a quiet apology as she made sure the machine was still on its roughest setting, as it was for every load today.

He always hated when she apologized. Sarah always hated silence, even this one, one without him.

She turned on the machine, adding conditioner, detergent, and a lot of bleach.

The can fire in the garage has been burning for hours, and was settling down into a hot and steady bonfire. Sarah threw in another stinky stool piece, watching the flames rise as they greedily devoured it.

She considered keeping the garage door closed for this, but not for very long. It was summer. Autumn will come in time, and winter too, but for now it was summer, and no time for closed garage doors.

Sarah fed the flames another stool piece, watching the flames rise high. 

Then, she threw in a pair of latex gloves, a leather wallet and a stained hammer. 

The flames barely even flared as they accepted her gifts. A dark, oily plume of smoke rose from the melting gloves. The stench of burning plastic stinging her throat, Sarah watched as the hammer caught fire. 

She watched as slowly, inevitably, the flames consumed it. She watched until her eyes burned from the smoke and the light, watched until even the head, glowing bright red, warped in the heat, watched until every trace it ever was a hammer burned.

Fuck you, she thought as she looked at the vacant lot where his car once sat. The car she made sure no one will ever find, nor recognize if they do.

See you in hell.

All it took was soap, a hammer and bleach.