To Dry Clean A CorpseJuly 12, 2018
If I had the choice between cleaning and putting a rabid squirrel up my ass I’d take the furball, ears first. Not that cleaning’s bad work. On the contrary, it’s good, wholesome work. I just don’t like it.
That puts me in a pretty big pickle. You see, when the girl I thought I was gonna marry came over and sent my day to hell on a speedboat by saying she was jilting me for a firmer piece of fruit I took a knife and did what I thought was necessary at the time. Now I’m looking down at her laying in the shallow end of her own little red pool. A mess that spreads with every blink of the clock.
The thought of cleaning turns my stomach like ipecac. Scrubbing brush in hand, knees on the floor, those yellow gloves with the fingers that are always too long, the stench of chemicals ripping through the air. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I will just leave the mess for someone else. No, that won’t work, this isn’t something an underpaid overworked grandma would tidy up without complaint. This isn’t spilled spaghetti on the kitchen floor!
I should have choked her, strangled her, put a plastic sack over her wretched I’ve found someone better-looking face. At least there’d be no blood. Nothing to clean. Just her body to throw out like last weeks leftovers.
I could run, but nowadays, no one gets away without being seen. I wish there was someone you could call in these situations like they do in the movies, where two burly men show up with chemicals in 5-gallon buckets and an unmarked white van. But, I don’t believe Eastman Father & Son Dry Cleaning is gonna be any help. At least I don’t think so.
I’d been stupid. Not about killing her, but about how I did it. There’s no way out of this but, I had to do my best.
I got a jumbo tub of disinfectant wipes and dabbed at the mess. I was just smearing it, spreading it, staining the wipe red. It wasn’t cleaning it, it was just killing 99% more germs. Why did I try? Sweat swallowed my head whole and I felt like I was gonna wretch.
I noticed a banging coming from the door. I went and opened it. It was two frog-faced policemen. The bigger one was going on about screaming being heard but, I wasn’t listening to his lips flap. I just stood smiling.
“Can,” I finally said, “Can you help me clean something?”
One elbowed the other and said, “Uh, look’re there Len.”
They were looking at my feet. I followed their gaze and saw that my slippers were stained red and leaving footprints. I wasn’t gonna clean that up.
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Michael D. Davis was born and raised in a small town in the heart of Iowa. Having written over thirty short stories, ranging in genre from comedy to horror from flash fiction to novella he continues in his accursed pursuit of a career in the written word.