Crime Scene

Author\'s Note: Written for a writing class. I have some other stories based around the same character, I don\'t know if I\'ll ever finish them where I\'ll like them. Review and tell me what you all think.

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I\'ve been kneeling for so long I imagine I\'ve forgotten what it feels like to stand upright. The clear plastic rain poncho crackles in protest every time I move and the sound is actually quite deafening. My forgotten standard issue work uniform that makes me look like a giant janitorial smurf, is probably balled up in the corner of my bathroom. I found this poncho in the back of my Dodge Stratus and I have no clue as to where it came from. It doesn\'t cover everything, but it covers enough for me to do my job.

I slide to my left. The tile beneath me is slick and my unprotected jeans are permanently stained with blood. I pause in my scrubbing to entertain the thought of stopping at Blockbuster on my way back home. Walk in with red blotches at my knees and reeking of stale life. \"Do you have Dirty Dancing?\"

My nostrils are burning from the chemicals in the cleaning solvents and I picture the interior of my nasal passages slowly being stripped bare. Without bothering to remove the latex glove from my hand, I push away an offending sprig of hair that was trying to blind me.

\"That\'s really unsanitary you know, you could catch something. Like AIDS or something. You could have a cut somewhere and the blood will get in...AIDS man.\"

I don\'t need to turn around to know who\'s talking to me. We\'re the only people in this house. This small well kept home smack in the middle of suburbia. It seems that I visit these homes the most. I think I was in this neighborhood a few days ago dealing with an \'unfortunate accident.\'

\"Thanks for the advice Ed.\"

\"Edmund.\"

\"I know.\"

I refuse to address him as Edmund. What sort of name is that? He never gets tired of correcting me. He does look like how an Edmund should though. Gangly, with limbs too long for his body. An awkward sort of walk. Like he\'s not quite sure if that\'s how it\'s done. I always picture a newborn fawn, still covered with his mother\'s blood.

Edmund\'s an albino with dark eyes. Stark white hair against a hairless body. Personally, it creeps me out. His mother always told him it just means he\'s special. How do I know this? He tells me every chance he gets. The creepiest sight is when this marble mistake of a statue has red smudges on his skin. God\'s little mistake.

This is my job. A few days a week, I walk in a house clean and come out looking like an extra from Kill Bill. My phone rings at three o\'clock so I can get down on my knees after the big guys clear the scene. I look over at Ed, hovering over a pretty good sized spill, and wonder if I should offer him my pocket knife. He\'s not going to get the dried blood out from between the tiles with that frayed toilet brush he\'s using. I decide against it. Why help Ed? He shouldn\'t even be here. He\'s one of those annoying kids who signs up just do he could show his friends the \'Crime Scene Cleaners\' logo on his coveralls. \"Next step is CIA guys, I just know it.\"

He\'s never going to get out of this. Next step, next house. There is no next step. I\'ve been doing this for ten years and my next step is not forgetting I have no clean underwear.

The muscles in my thighs are burning and I have to stand up. I almost fall back down but I right myself. Dropping the scrub brush to the floor, I leave the kitchen and walk into the living room. The air isn\'t exactly pure, but it\'s better than the chemical cloud I\'ve been choking in for the past hour.

I like taking a jaunt around the homes I visit. I like looking in on another life. With my back turned to the kitchen, the house appears normal for this neighborhood. Everything in its place. A few family pictures on the mantel, the international resting place for pictures. Faces forever frozen into a forced smile. Parents and a daughter. Daughter looks to be about sixteen, pretty enough. Nothing my jeans would get tight over.

A crystal graveyard to the left of the pictures piques my interest. A small group of those tiny crystal figurines sold at K-Marts across America, consumerism at its finest. They seem to be arranged in some order. They\'re all penguins and none of them are turned towards the other. I poke at one, pushing it to the ledge of the small shelf and leave it teetering. After sliding a few more from their place and to the ledge, I notice another small figurine sitting behind one of the smaller picture frames. I push the frame aside and lightly pick it up. It\'s a small mouse. I\'m guessing a field mouse. I swipe my thumb across its small face and frown at the faint red smear that follows. I quickly pocket the hard clear mouse. This will do fine. From the last house, I took a small couch pillow that read, \'There\'s No Place Like Home.\' I just tossed it to the side with the rest of the useless trinkets I bring home with me. Besides, it\'s not like I have a couch or anything to set it on. My apartment is a resting place for all the useless crap people buy to convince themselves they\'re satisfied. That they\'re breathing.

Nothing else in here except for a small couch with an acceptable wood coffee table in front. A few cloth armchairs, all pointed in the direction of the television set. That\'s where everything seems to point. White noise. Another home with no character, nothing to prove that someone lives here. Or lived. I really don\'t know.

They don\'t tell us anything about what happened with the \'incident\' and I entertain myself with making up my own version of the crime report. I\'m feeling rather dull this evening. It\'s around seven o\'clock and I should be well smashed right about now. I only drink when the sun in gone and it\'s dark. However the two don\'t always have to come together. I\'m quite happy with shutting myself up in my bathroom with no lights at seven in the morning. The bathtub is a prime drinking location, can\'t roll out of it. Just make sure not to accidentally turn the shower on with your foot.

Turning back to Edmund, I take my time getting back to the refrigerator. Peering down at the mess, I conclude that I\'m almost done. There\'s just a faint red splatter left, and a few more scrubs should clean in enough. I don\'t need to pass a test. I\'m pretty sure whoever still lives here won\'t be studying a surface which was covered with a loved one\'s blood.

Time to decide on cause. Not enough blood for two people, must be just one. Murder? Pop found out Mum was screwing the gardener? I remember using that one last week though. Besides, murder is over used. If you can\'t do it right, it just shouldn\'t be done. Maybe the daughter shot herself. Suicide hasn\'t popped up in a week or so. She must have been sitting, leaning back against the refrigerator. Barrel in mouth. Nothing to get better now, nothing at all. When the paramedics laid her down on the stretcher, she must have dripped. Only way the blood could have pooled in the middle of the kitchen floor where Ed is sitting. Christ I would have made on great detective.

I open the refrigerator door and am greeted by a gust of stagnant air. I lean down, hands on stained knees, as I assess the contents. A vast assortment of juice, must be big juice people. Anti-soda. Bastards. No one really wants Grape Juice, they want Sprite. I want Sprite. I move some tupperware containers aside, not bothering to see what\'s stored inside. Behind the mystery food, I find a pack of chocolate pudding. Score.

Grabbing two containers of pudding, I slam the door shut and start sliding drawers open looking for the silverware.

\"What the hell are you doing?\" Ed\'s right behind me and I mentally berate myself for not noticing he had moved from his position on the floor.

\"Trying to find a fucking spoon Ed, so I can eat my pudding.\" I heave a sigh in frustration as I slam another drawer shut. How the hell could they not have any god damn spoons in this house?

\"You can\'t do that David, you can\'t just take food.\"

\"There\'s more in there, you can have some.\"

\"I don\'t want any, you have to put it back. We aren\'t supposed to touch things unless we\'re cleaning them.\" Ed\'s voice has taken on this high pitched whine that bats could probably comprehend.

\"Look at it as cleaning the pudding out if you want. I\'ll finish scrubbing the brain matter off of the refrigerator the second I\'m done with the pudding, all right?\"

Annoyed with Ed, I forget about finding a spoon and decide just to eat with my fingers. That will really piss him off. I push past him, my shoulder hitting his, and slump down to the floor in front of the used refrigerator.

Looking at Ed, I make sure he watches me rest my head back against the door, right where the girls head must have been. Ed\'s eyes widen with what I can only imagine disgust. I let a satisfied smirk creep across my face and giggle on the inside when Ed resigns to the tiles, defeated. I rest with purpose. I peel the last latex glove from my hand, rubbing my fingers together feeling the powder residue left over. My hands look a ghostly white and I wonder what Ed\'s hands will look like once he takes his gloves off.

I tear the plastic sheath of a pudding container and dip my index finger in slowly. Letting the brown sludge fall in against my skin, swirling my finger around a little bit. After a beat, I set the pudding down on the smudged tile beside me and reach my clean hand into my front pocket. I pull out the mouse and set it down in front of me. While nursing my artificially flavored fingers, my face falls lax and my eyes relax on the tiny mouse.

\"I wonder why she did it.\"