i should have known

by A. L. Smith

I should have realized something was wrong when I saw the rag stuffed into the floor vent and heard her lingering on the other side of the door, barring my escape. But I didn’t. All I knew was that I had been commanded to clean the bathroom. So here I am, surrounded by a sea of gleaming white tile.

Armed with a bucket, sponges, and multiple cleaning agents, I prepare to do her bidding. I have no choice; my stepmother holds the power to make my life even more unbearable if I disobey.

I begin as I always do, from top to bottom: the walls, the mirrors, the shower.

“You’d better be using the bleach!” she calls from the other side of the door.

“I am,” I reassure her, even though I’m not. I hate bleach. It gives me a headache and turns my hands red and raw. I’ve pleaded for gloves, a mask, any protection from the harsh chemical, but my request is always denied.

“The bathroom better smell of bleach when I come in to check, or I’ll just make you do it again.” I know she means it. Once, I spent three hours scrubbing and sanitizing before she was finally satisfied and let me out.

I stand and move to the switch for the fan, flipping it on. It whirs to life as I sigh with relief. Maybe this time she won’t hear it.

“You know the rules, NO FAN!” she always hears. I switch it off.

I fill the bucket with water and mix in the bleach, then begin cleaning.

The toilet, the shower, the grout between tiles — everything must be immaculate. I scrub so hard that I start to sweat and feel lightheaded, my head aching as stars encroach on the edges of my vision.

I refuse to pass out; doing so will only make her angrier. I take a few steadying breaths, but the stale, chemical-laden air stings my throat and nose. My eyes begin to water as I feel my chest tighten from the onslaught, and I begin to cough uncontrollably.        

The hacking fits come more frequently as I struggle to inhale any trace of fresh, unpolluted air.

“K-K—” I try to call out, to beg for mercy, but my voice fails as my throat seizes up.

Thankfully, I am already on my hands and knees. That is my final thought before my body finally gives in and I collapse. My head strikes the cold tile floor with a sickening crack. Then, darkness.

I awaken to her shaking me, calling my name. My vision is fuzzy and unfocused. I can feel something wet trickling down the side of my face — probably blood. After a few moments, my vision clears, and I can make out distinct shapes once again.

I notice the bathroom door is wide open, the fan whirring, and the rag that once covered the vent is gone. I glance up at my stepmother, crouched beside me, her face filled with…concern? Why would she be concerned?

The answer comes immediately: Dad. He stands beside her; worry etched on his face. Despite his expression, he doesn’t reach for me or come any closer than necessary to reassure himself that I’m not dead. Injured, yes, but I will survive. I always survive. And it’s a good thing too; otherwise there would be too many questions, and no one wants the police looking into their lives. This time could have easily been deemed an accident. My stepmother is clever.

“You okay, hon?” she asks, feigning concern and wearing a look of sickening sweetness as she assesses me. “You’re bleeding. Did you fall and hit your head?” Her face is awash with sympathy and shock, but her eyes…oh, her eyes. Hard and cold, they pierce mine, glowing with a disgusted fury. I know the answer she wants.

I nod, and her eyes lose some of their malice.

She helps me sit up and reaches for the first aid kit. Here we go again. She pulls out cloth, bandages, and alcohol, then begins to dab gently at my face. The cloth comes away bloody.   

“How did you fall?” Dad asks. “Was the floor wet or something? Are you sure you’re okay? Do we need to call 9-1-1?” His rapid-fire questions reveal his growing panic. Maybe he is even a little worried. Yet he still doesn’t move toward me.       

I can almost hear my stepmother’s voice in my head, as if we are telepathically linked: Lie, LIE! And make it a good one!

My voice comes out shaky. “Yes, uh…there was water, and I must have slipped. I’m okay.”         

“Are you sure?” There seems to be genuine care in his voice. I can’t believe it. I lift my eyes to meet his, and that is when I see it: apathy. He shifts from side to side, his eyes darting away from mine, already inching backward toward the den, toward the freedom of pretending that I don’t exist.

Meanwhile, my stepmother murmurs comforting words, tending to my wounded head until he’s out of sight. Once he is, she drops her hands from me and sits back.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, all sympathy gone from her voice.

I nod.

Upon my answer, she abruptly stands. “Let me know if you get a headache or think you have a concussion or whatever. Okay? Oh, and clean up your blood as soon as you feel able. Then you can go. Obviously, you don’t have to finish the bathroom today. Tomorrow. You can finish tomorrow. You should recover by then. And remember, use the bleach.”

She gives me a chilling smile and leaves me sitting on the cold, bloodied tile. I should have known.                       

Photo by A. L. Smith

BIO: A. L. Smith lives in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States. She writes for pleasure, for catharsis, and to stay sane. Because of this she spends many hours of her free time each day hunched over her computer, furiously typing away and weaving the mad stories of her mind into existence.