Clean

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She scrubbed.
And scrubbed.
And scrubbed.
Yet it never got clean.
The spot on the purple table, which was handed down to her, never went away. It came with the spot and she was sure that whenever the table left her possession, wherever it went, it would leave with that imperfection.
It was a huge line, right across the top left corner of the table and no matter how hard she scrubbed, it never came off. It never even faded.
So this is what she did when the anxiety set in. She scrubbed.
In a way, it was comforting, knowing the spot would never go away. In a way, it was depressing, knowing that spot would never go away.
Every cleaner and home remedy failed to do damage to the stubborn mark. She had tried them all.
So she used her lemony fresh lysol and kept her hands moving. The movement attempted to calm her, but as usual only slightly dulled the pain in her stomach.
She was like a shark, constantly moving to stay alive. She cleaned, so she wouldn't slow down long enough to actually worry about what she was worried about.
She ran the rag, back and forth, back and forth, over the offending mark.
And then there it was.
At first she thought she had been staring at the table for too long, the contrast playing tricks on her eyes.
She took a break from her incessant cleaning to walk in the other room to fetch her glasses. She had to be sure.
Sure enough, the edges were faded and purple streaks could be seen under the darker hues that normally eclipsed them.
The mark was coming off.
She scrubbed.
And scrubbed.
And scrubbed.

Created: Aug 17, 2012

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