literature

Bleach

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PheonixKarr's avatar
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Literature Text

       Andrew had issues.

       One was the throbbing migraine, brought on by stress and the smell of the harsh cleaners.

       Another was the ripped glove - he preferred to pretend the horrible floor cleaner was actually eating through the plastic - letting bleach leak in all over his hand.

       The third and fourth issues had names:  Marrie and Linda.

       Andrew sat back on his heels, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat off his face with the bleach-covered glove.  The ballroom was only half-clean, and he’d been working for over an hour.  It was Linda’s fault, the whole thing.  And Andrew, because he was too nice for his own good, was here literally cleaning up after her.

       Punch on the ball room floor.  Red punch, on the white floor.  If the marble wasn’t a newly-installed reproduction - if, heaven forbid, it was actually the original, they’d have more than a mess on their hands: they’d more likely have a double homicide.

       Linda would have killed poor Marrie, and the director of the Historical Preservation chapter would’ve killed Linda.

       He wished Marrie was there in the ballroom, and wondered how long until her other gopher-duties were done.  She said she’d help him clean it up - it was her mess, after all - as soon as she finished her errands.

       That was mostly the reason he was there, on his knees scrubbing away at the giant red-punch stain:  Marrie Drescombe, with her giant blue eyes and curly red hair.  The unpaid intern was obsessed with the Lieuto House, the biggest historical site in the whole state.  She’d applied for a job there as soon as she was old enough, only to find herself under the oppressive thumb of Linda Esquette.

       Linda had sent Marrie to fetch the punch bowl (the full punch bowl) and bring it to the dining room in preparation of that night’s gala.  One thing led to another, and now Andrew was scrubbing the floor with bleach.

       “Where’s your girlfriend?”  He heard Linda quip in her London accent.  She’d only lived in London for two years, but somehow had absorbed the accent completely (such a fashionable thing it was).

       “Who?”  He grunted, still scrubbing.

       “The redhead.”

       “She has a name.”

       “Minnie something.”

       “Marrie.”

       “Marrie something.  Your gal.  Where is she?”  Linda rolled her eyes.

       “Shes not my gal, not my gelfrend.”  Andrew mimicked Linda’s accent on the last word.

       “Oh, nope.”  Linda laughed.  “She’s your gal.  She’s the only reason you’re here volunteering, so she’s your gal.”

       Andrew didn’t answer, but kept scrubbing.  Linda walked over to stand directly in front of him, her fancy black heels click-click-clicking on the marble floor.

       “Get a new life, hon.”  She said with a smirk.  “That girl cares more about this house than she cares about you.”  She tossed her hair and started on her way out of the ballroom.

       Andrew sighed.  At least she was honest.
Poor Andrew :C



I just realized that 'Marrie' is kind of... not a real name. It was midnight, and I think I was going for something like "Merrie", but not. O.o
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Without-walls's avatar
awww poor andrew :D i love this story... it tells a lot in barely anything. although i would kinda like it better if you said how old they were cause u made it seem like they were around 8-15 cause of the punch bowl (my train of thought, sorry) but then they cant be....

im sorry, i loved it either way:)