Golden Melody (Editing)

Chapter 33

Chapter 33 - The clean freak

Zatariel's Point of View

I woke up way too early. Which was offensive, considering I had barely slept.

My stomach was growling, and my bladder was preparing to file a formal complaint. But then I remembered where I was.

And suddenly hunger and hydration stopped mattering.

The kitchen. The hallways. The trauma.

It all came rushing back like sewage in a flooded pipe.

I clutched my stomach and groaned.

"Kill me," I whispered to the cracked ceiling. "Smite me, universe. I've lived long enough."

The universe, rude as always, ignored me. I rolled out of my creaky folding cot, grimaced as my feet touched the suspiciously sticky floor, and froze.

I needed to pee. Desperately.

But the idea of reentering that CR—Comfort Room, my foot, it was more like Contamination Realm, made me seriously consider dehydration as a lifestyle choice.

With my thighs pressed together, I set off on a desperate quest for the janitor's closet.

There wasn't one. There were no janitors. No cleaning supplies.

"How," I whispered in horror, "are people surviving in this facility?"

The only thing I found was a rusty rack holding one tragic mop—soaked in what looked like decades of despair, and a broom clinging to five brave strands of bristle like it was starring in a hair-loss commercial.

I stared at it. One of my eyes twitched.

"Is this," I muttered slowly, "why there are so many diseases in this country?"

I rubbed my face. "This is a national problem. President Ashel needs to take action."

But I couldn't wait for the president.

I am dying right now.

"I NEED A PHONE CALL!" I shouted, loud enough to wake the entire building.
"EMERGENCY CALL! I'M CALLING MY DAD!"

The warden shuffled out of his office, rubbing his eyes. "You can't use the phone without—"

"I have a UTI and an ulcer screaming inside my body!" I yelled, grabbing the mop. "If you don't let me call my father, I will die in this hallway. And I am severely allergic to dying in unsanitary environments!"

He blinked. Mildly alarmed.

I lowered my voice. "If you let me call him, I will personally fund a sanitation overhaul. I'll use my allowance."

I leaned closer. "I need proper equipment. Hazmat level."

He blinked again. Slowly.

Ten minutes later, I was pacing the hallway like a CEO during a hostile takeover, gripping a dusty landline.

"Dad!" I barked.

"...Zatariel?" came his groggy voice.

"I need a cleaning arsenal. Disinfectants, gloves, industrial masks, mop buckets with wheels, bleach, air fresheners, scrub brushes, spray bottles, flushable wipes, a functional toilet seat—and a bidet, Dad. A real one. Not the imaginary bidet they've got here powered by hope and dreams."

There was silence.

"...Is this phone call about a dirty bathroom?"

"It's not just dirty, Dad," I said gravely. "It's an ecosystem."