Clorox - My story ****

My name is Clorox, and I like to think I have an excellent life. I found the love of my life after looking for I don't know how many months*, I've raised children, I lived in the house anyclothes could wish for, and I spent my final moments next to my love, Sock. 

But it wasn't always that way.

No, I wasn't always this happy. Once I wandered the well-worn streets of the Laundry Machine, looking for something, anything, to distract me from my life. I often went to bars or worse just to forget the hardships of the past. I had grown up with an abusive father and it had given me anxiety. One day I had hooked up with an attractive pair of panties named Anne, and that relationship went terribly. I had thought I loved her, that she loved me in the same way until I found out she had cheated on me with a bowtie named Derek.

I had known Derek for a while, but we were more of acquaintances than anything. I had seen him walking down the street, and I had spoken to him once or twice, but that was all. But now I had an opinion of him, and a reason for it. Anne, who I thought had been my one true love, had cheated on me! So I beat up Derek and left him with a small rip, and I broke up with Anne. Anne had tried to convince me to stay with her by saying that she was pregnant, which was a lie. I had only been with her for four days*, and in that small amount of time I had never done "it" with her, so I knew almost immediately that it was a lie, but I still spent probably five days* worrying and acting completely out of my mind because I was so stressed.

I hadn't thought I had been prepared to be a father, and I was probably right, then. I'll tell you, I was totally freaking out. I didn't know what to do; should I leave Anne, or stay with her, for the "baby"? Should I ask Anne to get an abortion? No, she'd never say yes... 

I eventually found out that Anne was not, in fact, pregnant. I had begun to be aware that Anne's abdomen wasn't growing like it should, and she was just going by her regular diet, instead of eating almost twice as much like I had heard women do when they are pragananant. But, surprise surprise, as soon as I even brought it to light, Anne started to bawl her "eyes" out and begged me to stay with her, despite her always ignoring my feelings, putting me down, and downright being a terrible person. But I had thought that was what love was. That was what all my relationships had been like before then. Miserable, boring, and not a trace of love. And I hadn't even been in that many relationships: Remember, I was a loner. Anyways, I asked Anne if she was really pregnant, and the first thing she said to me was, "No, but please stay with me. I love you." See, that was where the real doubt started. Obviously, I thought I knew what love was, but I had a sudden realization: This wasn't love. In fact, I had no idea what love really was.

I glared at Anne. "No," I said, barely stifling my anger, "No, you don't love me, Anne." 

And with that, I walked out of the house, not knowing where I would go next. I tried sitting outside a bus stop. I got on the bus and pretended to be a part of a family I didn't know in the slightest just so I wouldn't have to pay with my non-existent money.

I didn't know where I was going. I didn't know when I would get off. I did get off eventually, though. I got off at a local... McDonald's. I walked. And walked. I walked for almost a minute* before it was the darkest point of the night and my feet hurt like all h*ck. I slept in a cardboard box that night.

I awoke feeling stiff from sleeping on the cold, hard ground. I got up and stretched, wishing I could walk to a kitchen, any kitchen, and make myself a cup'a Joe. I set my head back down on the trash bag I was using as a pillow, pondering what I would do next. 

I was about to give up when a thin, frail "hand" reached toward me. I looked up. There stood an ancient nightgown, awaiting for me to get up. Of course, I stood up. The nightgown smiled. "Are you needing help young sir? It's awfully cold and sketchy in this part of town," she asked, smiling a toothless smile.

I allowed myself a smile. I looked at my "feet" and said, "Thank you, that's very kind, but I'm sure I'll survive out here."

The nightgowns "lips" creased in a frown. "Oh, posh. I offer you help, and you refuse it as though I only offered you a raisin?" I sighed. "I guess I do need help. I'm sleeping on a garbage bag for, for goodness sake, and it's not even mine!" The nightgown smiled again. "That's more like it. Now take my hand and I'll give you a proper bed and house to stay in."

I obliged and she took me to her house, an old clothing bin. She took me in and showed me to my room, then went to run me a bath and make me some Kraft Dinner™.  After I had cleaned myself, I went to eat and she sat at the table with me. I learned that her name was Bertha Gertrude Gown, that she was 84 months* old and that she had raised her seven children in this very house. I learned to like Bertha quite a lot, and I stayed with the old nightgown for many a month.* 

Bertha eventually became too weak to complete simple tasks. I helped her with the daily chores and helped her get around the house. Before I knew it, she was to celebrate her 89th birthday in just two weeks. I was the only one attending since the rest of her friends had either died, or they were too old to get around and her younger relatives lived quite far from our Laundry Room, four houses away.**

The two weeks went by quickly. On the day of her party, I baked her a small vanilla cake with 89 candles. (I counted) When I carried her downstairs, she gasped at the cake. "No one has ever made me a cake quite this nice, Clorox. You're too good to me." I smiled down at her. "You're like a mother to me, Bertha you deserve everything that I give you and more," I replied. 

That night was chilly and the air blew in from the open windows in a gentle breeze. I was in a deep sleep when I heard strangled, raspy noises from the other room. I ran to Bertha's room and helped her sit up. "Are you alright?" I asked, worried. Bertha took my hand in hers and continued to make loud wheezing noises. "It's going to be alright Bertha, that's right... let it out," whispered. Bertha suddenly ceased the noises. I could see the life fading from her eyes. "Clorox. I'm afraid it's my time," she said in a frail voice. A tear rolled down my cheek. "No it isn't Bertha, you're strong you will get through this. We'll get through this."

Bertha chuckled softly. "I don't think I have the energy to push through, I've run from death for long enough. You've done all you can to help the house and I. You're like a son to me, and I hope that maybe one day, we will meet in heaven." With a single breath, her eyes looked upward and remained there, staring at the ceiling with a peaceful expression. I lived in that laundry basket for a long time. Every time I looked out my window I saw her gravestone, standing there like a small sentinel, guarding her through death. 

This is my story. Or at least, up until I met Sock. But I'll assume you've read the other book.

*In these books, months are an equivalent of years, days are an equivalent of months and minutes are an equivalent of days.

**Clothes are quite smaller than humans, therefore making each room approximately the size of a province and a house the size of a country. Because of this, they also thus almost never leave their house, save for when they are worn.