Purple Finch Press

Ben Robison —

The first sign of blood appeared when I was seated near a window in the threshold of Hell, or as it is more commonly known, the laundromat. A single scarlet drop dripped out of my nose and plopped onto the page of my copy of Stephen King’s Carrie. How fitting. 

Quicker than the blood from my nose, the book dropped onto the seat next to me. I pinched my nostrils between my pointer finger and thumb after a few more drops trickled out and slid down to my chin, the sweet scent of detergent and dryer sheets now mixing with the metallic bitterness of blood. I looked around for a napkin or tissue, but there was nothing in sight that I could use to stop the bleeding. I stood up to make my way over to the restroom, but I was interrupted by a loud buzzing that signified my clothes had finished drying. 

With twice as many washers as there were dryers, usually the laundromat was a cutthroat, war-torn battlefield. There were often at least two or three people eyeing your dryer, waiting for the signal to swarm in like a moth to a porch light and empty your clean clothes onto the floor if you didn’t get there within seconds of the timer going off. But I looked around, and strangely enough, saw nobody else waiting. I decided it would be alright if I gave myself a moment to clean up in the bathroom.

When I returned from the bathroom, I discovered that someone had emptied the dryer I had been using and left my clean clothes on the filthy linoleum floor within the few minutes it took me to give my face a wipe with a dampened paper towel. I looked around the laundromat, but the place looked as empty as it had when I left. The only other person in sight was a young male employee, feet propped up on top of the front counter and head hiding behind a Sports Illustrated magazine.

I grabbed my empty basket and trudged over to my pile of laundry to assess the damage. Not only was the laundromat floor undeniably disgusting, the clothes had dropped right into a sudsy pile of used water leaking out from one of the ancient washers. I groaned, throwing my laundry basket onto the ground in frustration. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. Throwing open an unused washer, I reloaded the now-dirty clothes. Tossed in a Tide Pod, hit start. Sure, I could’ve just sucked it up and thrown the clothes back in the dryer instead of starting over and adding an extra hour and a half to my sentence. But if you saw the state of the laundromat floor, you’d have done the same thing. 

I returned to my seat near the window and opened Carrie back up. It was easy to find where I left off by locating the bright red splotches on the bottom of the page. The next thirty minutes flew by as I read through Carrie White’s fateful prom night. Poor girl. 

A couple of people came and went as they switched damp clothes over to dryers or grabbed their clean clothes and fled. Nobody lingered. They all left as quickly as they came. I wondered if one of them had been the person who dropped my clothes all over the dirty floor.

The timer for my washer went off just as I was just getting to the part of Carrie where the empty bucket falls right onto Tommy Ross’ head. I folded the corner of the page I was on and set the book down on the seat next to me. I stood up, stretched, and walked over to the washer to switch it over to a dryer. I reached into the washer and quickly yanked my hand back out. The clothes were soaking wet. 

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Aren’t clothes in a washer supposed to be wet?” Of course they are. A bit wet, maybe. Damp. But not soaking, sopping, dripping wet like this. It was so wet that when I reached into the washer, I fully submerged my hand. As if that wasn’t shocking enough, it was sickeningly warm. I then discovered upon inspecting my hand that it was drenched in a dark red liquid. 

Did one of my shirts stain the water? I wondered, studying my hand. I’d never heard of such a thing happening. I looked closer and stumbled backwards away from the washer, suddenly feeling very queasy as I came to the realization that the thick, warm, red liquid on my hand was not water, but blood. I scrambled away from the washer and shook my hand around vigorously. I felt like I was going to be sick. Abandoning my clothes I sprinted into the bathroom to wash it all off, my mind reeling with a mix of shock, fear, and confusion. 

My hands quivered as I washed them with a drop of soap from the bottle perched on the edge of the sink. I scrubbed and scrubbed as the blood continued to fly off, splashing onto the stark whiteness of the sink in crimson splotches again and again. I squirted another miniscule drop of soap into my shaking hands, the spout squeaking with air that signified a practically empty bottle. More soap. I needed more soap. With each additional squirt, scrub, and splash, my frustration grew. By the time I went back into the main lobby, I was sizzling with anger. 

I marched up to the counter, trying to remain as calm as possible while my whole body shook slightly. The man behind the counter was in the same position I last saw him half an hour ago, feet up on the counter, head buried in a magazine. 

“Excuse me.” 

The guy didn’t move a muscle. I rolled my eyes and repeated myself, but he still didn’t answer. I grew angrier, and slammed my hand onto the bell labeled “Please ring for service.”

The man grunted.

“Hello,” I said, exasperated. “One of your washers is full of blood. And all my clothes are in there.” I shivered as I recalled the image of the blood flying off my arm.

“Did you make sure the quarters went all the way into the machine?” he asked in a gruff monotone, flicking to the next page of his magazine.

“I don’t think that has anything to do with it!” I responded sharply.

“Yeah, yeah. Did you make sure the door was closed all the way before pressing ‘start?’”

“What?” I snapped. “Are you even listening to me? One of your washers is full of blood! Aren’t you gonna do something?”

The guy finally dropped his magazine down low enough to look at me for the first time. His eyes were small and beady like a rodent, narrowed into a permanent scowl. 

“Lady, I just work here. I’m not Fox Mulder, alright?” He went to bring the magazine back up to his face but I snatched it from his grasp and threw it over my shoulder.

“MY CLOTHES ARE SWIMMING IN BLOOD YOU MORON! DO. SOMETHING.” 

I glared at him, my breath sharp in my chest. I had rarely ever lashed out like this. But the startled look in his eyes made me feel a kind of power I had never quite experienced before. I certainly had his attention now.

“Alright, alright!” The guy said, throwing up his hands and hopping out of his chair. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, hiking up his jeans as he waddled over to the wall of washers and dryers with me following behind. 

It wasn’t hard to see what I was talking about: Some of my clothes had fallen out onto the floor as blood poured out of the open washer, like the mouth of a beast halfway through tearing open its latest meal.

“What the….” the guy said, stepping back in shock. “What did you do?”

“What did I do? It’s your washer!” I scoffed. “What the hell happened to it?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know!” he responded. “You obviously broke it!”

“Well, there must be someone you can call to deal with it, right?” I asked.

“Who? The Ghostbusters?” 

“I don’t appreciate your attitude,” I snapped, putting both hands on my hips and glaring at him. “You could at least try to be just a little bit helpful. Call your manager. Call the police!”

“I am the manager,” the man snapped back. “And I don’t want any pigs swarmin’ around my store,” he said ignoring me. He tore his gaze away from the washer and directed it instead back to me, beady eyes glaring, his whole body leaning slightly towards me. 

“So here’s what you’re gonna do: Get yourself together and put the clothes in a new washer, or you can go ahead and shove ‘em up right up your ass. Either way, leave me be. And nobody’s calling the police! Got it?”

I was completely speechless. He leaned down to pick up the magazine I had cast aside earlier and in a moment of impulsive anger, I placed my heel on his bottom and shoved him down to the ground. He went flying headfirst, smashing his face up against the clear plastic of a washer door. He screeched in pain. As soon as the rest of his body hit the floor, he rolled over onto his back and looked up at me.

“You broke my fucking nose!” he screamed. 

Blood began to trickle out from between the fingers of the hand nursing his smashed nose. I took a step back, shocked at my own actions. My hands tingled. I winced at the sight of the blood. But the feeling passed and was replaced with a rush of euphoria. 

“That felt good,” I thought. “Really good.”

The man roared and jumped to his feet. I tried to kick him again, but this time he was ready and caught my foot with both hands: Now it was my turn to go flying. I hit the ground hard, but I barely felt anything due to the amount of adrenaline in my veins. I started to get up but the man jumped on top of me, pinning me down to the ground.

“You’re a fucking psycho!” the man roared in my face, spit flying everywhere. 

I turned my head to avoid the flying saliva, and my eyes settled on a long forgotten Tide Pod that had fallen out of sight under one of the tables. I reached for it with all my might, but my fingertips could barely graze the sleek plastic package. The weight of the man crushed me, each breath became a labored one. I let out every last ounce of air left in my lungs as I heaved, reaching out under the table once again. This time I was able to pinch the Tide Pod between the tips of my pointer and middle finger just enough to drag it an inch closer and grab it firmly in my hand. I swung my arm around, thrusted the Tide Pod into his face, and squeezed it as hard as I could. Thick blue and green liquid exploded out of it, covering his face in the sticky substance.

The man howled and grabbed his face with both hands, giving me just enough freedom to shove him away. I rolled and got back onto my feet, standing over him. The man looked up at me and blinked through one eye, his other still caked in detergent and squeezed tightly shut. He started to stand up, but I was already planning my next move. I reached for one of the washer doors and opened it slightly. As he leapt to his feet, I whipped the door open wide and slammed it right into his face, causing him to screech in pain. With one hand I grabbed him by the shoulder, keeping him pinned up against the adjacent washer. With my other hand, I slammed the door over and over, bashing it into his head again and again until his screeching subsided into nothing more than quiet bubbling gurgles.

At that point I let go, allowing him to drop to the ground in a heap. His tangled bloody mess of a body didn’t look that much different than the pile of clothes next to him. For a moment he was motionless. Then he groaned and started to stir, whimpering. I looked down at him. I felt the same power as earlier, when I first saw the shock and fear in his eyes. No one had ever looked at me like that before. Now I was seeing that look again. And it felt even better than the first time.

“Please!” he somehow managed to cry, blood pouring out of his mouth like it poured out of the washer. His face now barely resembled that of a human. All I could see was a pair of bloodshot white eyes peering out from a dripping mess of various shades of dark red. “Please! I need to get to a hospital!” Two broken teeth slid down his chin like inflatable tubes on a river and fell out of sight. 

I balled my fists. I could feel the rage coursing through my body. 

“Nobody’s calling the police,” I answered. 

I raised my heel off of the ground until it was poised over what was left of his horrified face and stomped until his face no longer offered resistance and my foot sank as smoothly as a child’s rain boot would sink into a fresh puddle of mud. 

I sighed and crouched down closer to the ground. I grabbed handfuls of my clothes off of the floor and stuffed them into a new washer. Added a Tide Pod, pressed start. Walked over to the seat near the window. Sat down and picked up Carrie once more. I didn’t bother to wash my hands off this time. I didn’t even cringe at the sight of the blood. I just sat down and opened the book up to where I left off and began to read. A few pages were already ruined by my nosebleed earlier. What harm would a few more stains do at this point? I laughed as the blood from my hands covered every page as I turned it.

How fitting.