stench. It’s not because the food has gone stale so quickly; more because of what it’s mixed with. Alas, I find it a somewhat shameful confession that I’m getting used to the smell. I just don’t think about it often. Keeps me sane.
After I’m done picking up the mess, I scrub the floors meticulously to make sure the stains are gone and the foul stench has disappeared. I like using my special brand of disinfectant; it always seems to do the trick. I guess this is why I’m always the one cleaning everything afterwards—I’m the only one who knows how to make it spotless again.
It’s one of the benefits of being so adamant about cleanliness. It has its pros and cons. Especially considering where it all came from. My father used to make me scrub the floors and tables for hours. There was always this pungent smell hanging in the house. It reeked of alcohol and puke. Sometimes, I think he made me clean just to cover up for his filth.
My father was not a kind man. Luckily, he’s not here to torment me anymore.
I still remember everything. Every bit of the humiliation he put me through. He’d show me how to properly dress myself and perfect my stride, my hair, my smile. Everything. If not, I would get a slap. Slaps turned into beatings if I didn’t improve. And so I kept improving until I no longer knew what it was like to not hate dirt. I hate it with every pore in my body.
I think back on yesterday, how I spilled my cum all over myself while that woman watched me. Of course, I cleaned up the aisle right away after Miss Carrigan left. No cum or sweat shall stain the floors of my beautiful halls. What can I say? I hate being dirty, but I can’t help myself either.
Miss Carrigan … just thinking about her creates a storm in my head. She will ruin me. Just by coming back, she’ll destroy me. I can’t let it happen. I cannot have relationships. Not of any sort. Not even if it’s temporary, with or without sex. If someone found out … no, I can’t let it happen.
Dammit, I still can’t believe she followed me again. What was she thinking? That I’d be gentle? I shake my head. No way. I shouldn’t be thinking about such a thing right now. I have much more important things to do, like sanitizing this floor.
I digress so quickly, but I suppose that’s normal when you’ve been cleaning for hours. I can’t help but let my mind drift. Anything to take my mind off the fact that I’m touching the most gruesome thing on earth.
When I’m done with the floors, I check the table. The heavy black bag is zipped up and ready for transport, so I grab it with both hands and tug it off the table. The smack it makes doesn’t faze me anymore. Neither does the dragging and slipping as I haul it through the door and out the emergency exit. It takes some effort to throw it over the fire escape stairs, and the sound it makes once it hits the asphalt is anything but appealing.
I run down the stairs and open the trunk of the hearse I own and chuck the bag in the back, closing the lid afterwards. I drive and drive, not thinking about anything. Traffic keeps my mind adrift, away from insanity. A weight is lifted off my shoulder as I drop the body off at the morgue. They sign the paperwork, and I give them the small bribe. They don’t need much. All I ask for is silence. They register her into the system. Cause of death: suicide by jumping off a building. It suits her injuries well. The staff doesn’t complain. At least they received a complete one this time. Not that they could complain. If they would, they’d die.
There is no such thing as choice or free will. All that exists is those with power and those without. Obeying those that command. They’re blinded by their own ignorance if people think they stand a chance against those who own them. Money. The tool that was invented to live, to be free and care for people, is used for pain, anguish, domination, and rule. Money is the blood in our veins that keeps us alive or
After I’m done picking up the mess, I scrub the floors meticulously to make sure the stains are gone and the foul stench has disappeared. I like using my special brand of disinfectant; it always seems to do the trick. I guess this is why I’m always the one cleaning everything afterwards—I’m the only one who knows how to make it spotless again.
It’s one of the benefits of being so adamant about cleanliness. It has its pros and cons. Especially considering where it all came from. My father used to make me scrub the floors and tables for hours. There was always this pungent smell hanging in the house. It reeked of alcohol and puke. Sometimes, I think he made me clean just to cover up for his filth.
My father was not a kind man. Luckily, he’s not here to torment me anymore.
I still remember everything. Every bit of the humiliation he put me through. He’d show me how to properly dress myself and perfect my stride, my hair, my smile. Everything. If not, I would get a slap. Slaps turned into beatings if I didn’t improve. And so I kept improving until I no longer knew what it was like to not hate dirt. I hate it with every pore in my body.
I think back on yesterday, how I spilled my cum all over myself while that woman watched me. Of course, I cleaned up the aisle right away after Miss Carrigan left. No cum or sweat shall stain the floors of my beautiful halls. What can I say? I hate being dirty, but I can’t help myself either.
Miss Carrigan … just thinking about her creates a storm in my head. She will ruin me. Just by coming back, she’ll destroy me. I can’t let it happen. I cannot have relationships. Not of any sort. Not even if it’s temporary, with or without sex. If someone found out … no, I can’t let it happen.
Dammit, I still can’t believe she followed me again. What was she thinking? That I’d be gentle? I shake my head. No way. I shouldn’t be thinking about such a thing right now. I have much more important things to do, like sanitizing this floor.
I digress so quickly, but I suppose that’s normal when you’ve been cleaning for hours. I can’t help but let my mind drift. Anything to take my mind off the fact that I’m touching the most gruesome thing on earth.
When I’m done with the floors, I check the table. The heavy black bag is zipped up and ready for transport, so I grab it with both hands and tug it off the table. The smack it makes doesn’t faze me anymore. Neither does the dragging and slipping as I haul it through the door and out the emergency exit. It takes some effort to throw it over the fire escape stairs, and the sound it makes once it hits the asphalt is anything but appealing.
I run down the stairs and open the trunk of the hearse I own and chuck the bag in the back, closing the lid afterwards. I drive and drive, not thinking about anything. Traffic keeps my mind adrift, away from insanity. A weight is lifted off my shoulder as I drop the body off at the morgue. They sign the paperwork, and I give them the small bribe. They don’t need much. All I ask for is silence. They register her into the system. Cause of death: suicide by jumping off a building. It suits her injuries well. The staff doesn’t complain. At least they received a complete one this time. Not that they could complain. If they would, they’d die.
There is no such thing as choice or free will. All that exists is those with power and those without. Obeying those that command. They’re blinded by their own ignorance if people think they stand a chance against those who own them. Money. The tool that was invented to live, to be free and care for people, is used for pain, anguish, domination, and rule. Money is the blood in our veins that keeps us alive or
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