Days go by before she notices that her shoes aren’t as clean as they should be. With a frown, she sits crisscrossed in the middle of her room, scrubs at her shoes. It shouldn’t bug her that much, that small fleck of dried mud, but it does. It makes her spine want to twist, makes her want to curl up and scream into her chest.
Missed a spot, the wind hisses as it flutters in from the open window. It ruffles her hair as she bites her lip and scrubs harder. Her knuckles are white, her shoe is dripping onto her lap. Gonna have to do better than that…
“Shut up,” she mumbles through clenched teeth. Fine, fine; you’re fine, she assures herself. She straightens her spine and loosens her grip on the shoe slightly, stretches her arms out. Then she returns to her task and within minutes is finished. “There,” she murmurs, smiling as she admires her handiwork.
You’re not finished yet.
She looks up, glances around her room. It’s right, she’s not finished yet. Her room is far too cluttered, too messy. She needs to clean it. It needs to be presentable—everything has to be perfect.
Tsk—what’s that? I thought you were more organized than this, the wind admonishes, cackling as it twists around her ankles. Look at all of those papers. Such a mess!
“No,” she whispers. She rushes to organize her desk, dust it. Put the papers in order, place them at the very corner. Straighten her mirror, wipe off the smudges. “No, no, no.”
She rushes to her bed, the sheets are rumpled and wrinkled. Smooth it out, fluff the pillows, set them in the middle. “The nightstand!” she bemoans, her nails digging into her flesh. She dusts it, organizes the books, moves the lamp. “How has it gotten this messy?”
So far from over, the wind clucks. It surges up her body, turning her to look at the entirety of her room. The walls, the floor, the rug—all so dirty. They need to be cleaned, sparkling. You’re such a pig.
She wails suddenly, clutching her head in her hands, tangling her fingers in her hair. In the blink of an eye, she dashes out her door and returns with cleaning supplies, ready to scrub down her entire room. How could she have been so blind? There is filth everywhere! How long has she been living in such a pigsty, she wonders.
Her knuckles turn white, her fingers and hands pink. Her arms ache from scrubbing, she’s tired, but she doesn’t stop. So much cleaning, everything has to be clean, everything has to be perfect. She cannot live in such loathsome surroundings. The wind flutters at her shoulders, pointing out places that she misses, pointing out how poor she is at cleaning.
Forgotten, her shoes lie in the middle of the room, one on its side. The pristine silver looks new against the pink of her rug.
