Laundry

Laundry

by Yelle dela Cruz

She was doing the laundry...

An alarming knock on the door. A police officer. A look of obvious suspicion on his scarred face. A Polaroid picture tucked in his shirt pocket. A man murdered. A bloody pavement. In the background, huge garbage cans with WM™ logos. A mobile phone registered his final calls. The very last one being hers...

Last night, she was doing the laundry. He called. They had a fight. Shouts were heard by the neighbors. Dogs howled. She hung up. She went back to doing the laundry. Clothes were sorted out. Whites. Coloreds. She filled the washing machine with water. Detergent... Cabinets were opened. Searched. Searched. Searched. Closed. She had run out.

The coat was grabbed. The keys were found. The door was shut. Locked.

She sat on the car. She remembered the conversation very well. Too well. She inserted the key in the ignition. She stepped on the gas. The car roared. Her phone rang. He's calling. The call was rejected. She pulled out of the driveway.

WM™. The store was just about to close. She hurriedly went out of her car and pushed the glass doors. She knew very well where to find it. Aisle 15. She grabbed a large box of detergent powder and proceeded to the cashier. She shelled out a couple of bucks.

The janitor closed the doors after her. The parking lot was deserted. Except for a black Rolls-Royce near the bushes. A tall guy sitting on the hood. He watched as she stood there in the darkness, the store closed behind her. He watched closely as she started to panic and dropped her car keys. He began approaching her. Slowly. Then more slowly. This made her panic even more. She dropped the box of detergent and struggled with her keys. Only a few steps more... She opened the door and slid inside. But it was too late. He broke her window, unlocked her door then pulled her hair. She was fighting back. He threw her out of the car. Clutching her keys with a firm grip, she aimed for his eye.

She ran toward the back alley, shouting for help. No one was there. She tripped, her face just inches away from the garbage bags. She saw something glisten in the moonlight. He was already running towards her... Despite the bleeding on his right eye, he was unfazed. When he reached her, she was holding something in her hand. It glistened in the moonlight. That was all he saw. Before he could even make out what it was, she shoved him and he fell back. Then she began stabbing him. Harder. And harder. The anger welling inside of her. He was in a pool of blood now. His blood. It was a frightening scenario.

Then there was silence.

She stood up and stopped for a moment. If he hadn't been too possessive, if he hadn't been too obsessed...this would never have happened, she mused. She looked at him not with terror, not with pity, but with apathy. The green monster devoured him. Jealousy is one hell of an enemy...

She stood up, took her coat off and wiped the blood off her face, her hands, her whole body. She dropped the dagger in his bloody grave. No fingerprints. Only blood -his blood. That was dealt with. She headed toward her car as if nothing happened. She picked up the box lying on the pavement. She shut her door. She inserted the key in the ignition. She stepped on the gas. The car roared. Her phone rang. It's not him. The call was rejected. She headed straight home.

She only needed to look flabbergasted and weep every so often to make her look innocent. She looked at the officer, tears swelling in her eyes. The officer, seeing her very depressed, tried to console her. But she was inconsolable. The look on her face was utter genius. She was putting one hell of an act. The officer kept telling her to calm down. At last she stopped. After awhile, the officer stood up to leave. She thanked him, teary-eyed still. When they said their goodbyes, the man thought he saw a faint grin cross her lips. He shrugged it off. This woman had had enough tonight, he thought.

She watched the patrol car disappear into the distance. She went to open her car's trunk. The bloody coat was grabbed. The widow went inside the empty house. Empty, except for her. Then the door was shut. Locked.

Then she tore open the box of detergent and proceeded to do her laundry...