Polished Off

The scrubber. That’s what they call her in the downstairs halls; upstairs: nameless, faceless, worthless. But she works at it. Scrub, scrub, scrubbing all day, all night, forever with a brush and a rag. Belt buckles, shoe clasps, cufflinks. Silver shining like a waxing moon.

Scrub, scrub, scrub out the dirt from her spirit, the mud from the carpet. Buff the foyer tiles ‘til they shine again, scrub caked mud from shoes not hers, never hers, make them gleam.

Silverware polished, knives gleaming, cups holding wines like ichor as he tromps past, heady fumes scrubbing hard at what meagre decency remains in his withered soul. Scrubbing blood from walls in his wake, scrub, scrub, scrub.

Fingers raw and rough, nails flaking off like poor paint on weathered wood. Cloth in one hand, brush in the other, dirt and muck in between the scrubbing. Faster, better, cleaner, brighter. Looks better than new; never enough. Always there’s more to do, more to be cleaned. She scrubs. Scrub, scrub, soap on the floors, soap in the bathtubs, soap in bubbles that burst with a thought, soap on cracked ribs, bruised shins. Boots she could see her face in catching her on the chin. 

Seems never ending, the stains they make. Every touch, every breath, every movement leaving grime, a trace, tarnish. She scrub, scrub, scrub, scrubs with determined eyes, teeth gritted tight. Cleanliness, the order of the day, of every day. Perfection never quite enough. Red roses on the walls, washed pink and then scrubbed away ‘til they never existed except in her memories. Ornate frames glitter, around pictures and paintings and mirrors. Bloodied nose, split lip scrubbed pink and puffy and clean as shirts starch. She scrubs away the imperfections, but they linger deep where her brush can’t reach.

Scrub, scrub. Floors to a shine, can see a face in them, if it’s close enough. Hers is. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Slip. Stairs scrubbed raw, and now his is, too.