The mop let out a thick smacking sound as it made contact with the floor. Sliding back and forth, it left a wide shiny trail on the cafeteria floor.
Dirty…everything’s so dirty.
Melissa Hepburn thought to herself. Filthy water splashed onto the floor as the mop was rinsed in the bucket, and the process was repeated. Part of her felt like it was her sole purpose in life to eradicate the most hated substance on the earth: dirt. Bending over, she rubbed her finger along the wet floor and looked at a moment. Wrinkles appeared on her forehead as she stared intensely at it. The salty stink of rotten french fries and old chicken wafted into her nostrils. Perfect white teeth were revealed as her lips parted. After another moment of quizzical staring, the finger disappeared inside her mouth. Sounds of her tongue lathering the finger with spittle resonated through the cafeteria. A sharp squeak came from her lips, and the finger left her mouth. She smiled, satisfied with her work.
Clean.
The dirty mop returned to the closet.
Several hours later, she arrived home. The inside of the small brown Victorian style house was impeccably clean. Surfaces shined, the floors were completely devoid of any stains or foreign objects. Inhaling deeply, she savored the acidic aroma of vinegar and Lysol.
So clean!
Bright teeth showed once more as she broke into a broad grin. Reebok sneakers squeaked on the freshly waxed floors as she entered the kitchen. Freezing in place, her lips trembled with anger when she turned and saw that she had trekked in dirt.
It touched me.
Her nose wrinkled in disgust. Closet doors swung open as Melissa hurried to get the mop. The terrible presence she had invited into her house must be eliminated, no matter what it took.
Dirty, dirty, DIRTY!
Commanding herself to remove the impurity, mopping and rinsing until the evil was gone.

Entering the kitchen once more, she decided to prepare dinner in advance. Opening the closet once more, she looked to the third shelf. Stainless steel shimmered, coming off of a handheld single blade cheese grater. It had one-inch slits spaced every half-inch. Next to that was a pint of 100% ammonia, just for those tough stains. Air filled her lungs and she held her breath, last time she inhaled ammonia she was knocked out cold.
Cautiously, she moved on. After her eyes rolled over various knives and cleaning products, she found what she was looking for. Hanging on a nail by the small hole near the top if its blade was a meat cleaver. Fingers clenched into a fist around the cleaver, its heavy weight feeling comfortably familiar in her hand. Cold air rushed out as the door to the freezer opened. From the back of the freezer she produced a full chicken. Deciding not to wait for the chicken to thaw, she placed it on the cutting board.
The cleaver rose upward, and fell onto the carcass with unerring speed and accuracy. Every hit connected perfectly with the joint, creating a loud popping noise along with a wet squelching sound as the cleaver smashed its way through the meat. Sweat covered the handle of the cleaver, and the blade slipped slightly, connecting with the bone. Flecks of red marrow flew through the air, and there was a sickening crunch as the bone shattered. The dull blade effortlessly crushed through it.
Blood and juice oozed from the meat as it was forced into plastic bags, carefully sealed; and stored in the freezer. Water flowed from the tap and she carefully washed the cleaver until is sparkled. The nail in the closet accepted its burden as the cleaver was returned to its proper place in the closet.
Sighing, she went to the bedroom to take a nap. She dreamed of shiny things and bitter smells.
At 4pm the front door gently closed, its hinges making no noise thanks to frequent oiling. She had taken over the task after her husband left her.
“Hi mom I’m home!”
The voice belonged to that of her eight year-old son, her only child. Melissa’s eyes lazily flicked open, her surroundings focusing in. Her nostrils flared in disgust. Dirt. Even through the walls she could smell the filth on him. Bed springs bounced as she leapt out of the bed and began digging through the drawers of her dresser. An empty carton of cigarettes was cast aside, and her thin fingers closed around the pack of matches and rubber gloves that were hidden there. Inside the fireplace rested an old pile of dry firewood, remains of the winter. Sulfur smelling particles joined the scratchy hiss as a match burst into flames. Several minutes later a gentle crackle could be heard. Slowly the musty smell of smoke filled the house. Finally realizing that she forgot to open the flue, she did so, and the smoke filtered out into the June sky.
Lukewarm water poured from the tap as she pulled at the false crystal knob above the bathtub. Hurriedly double-checking that everything was in order, she went to fetch her son. Upon seeing him she reeled back in fear and disgust, staring at his nude body. It was caked with dirt and grass. He reminded her of that horrible Clayface monster from his batman comics.
Filthy!!
Keeping her distance, she led him to the bathtub.
Small toes touched the liquid, and it instantly turned brown. Bits of grass and grime floated around in the murky sludge. He was forced under anyway. Water was clean. Smooth soapy lather covered the yellow porous sponge as she scrubbed every inch of his body. The rough surface of the sponge broke away the dirt from his body, and when the dirt was gone it bit as his tender skin, making it raw and pink.
Destroy it all
Warmth welled up inside her stomach as she felt herself emerging victorious from the battle with the greatest enemy she knew. She held his hand, and began to wash them. Rinsing away the soap, they were still brown. Her eyes widened in shock, and soap and water covered his hands again. Nothing. The dirt was still there, stained onto his skin. Whines of frustration came from her lips, her teeth bared and eyes wide. Faster and faster the sponge scrubbed his hands. Muscles quivering, desperate not to let her only child become victim to the filth. Tears flowed from her son’s eyes and his hand struggled as it began to bleed, but her grip was strong and merciless. Tears or not, she must destroy it all. Then, her mind flashed white, and an idea came to her. Rising to her feet, she took the gloves out of the back pocket of her jeans and put them on. Wood splintered into the tub as she slammed the door shut, her son screamed. Overcoming the fear of his dirty clothes, she grabbed them, and threw them into the fire. They ignited with a satisfying sound like that of a blowtorch.
Mommy knows best.
She slowly walked to the kitchen and opened the closet door.