The Laundromat

There are many things that are in laundromats that should never be inside of a washing machine. 
The light of the street lamp meandered in through the window-pane storefront, and mingled with the stale air and the humming, yellowed lights of the Laundromat. It was dusky and quiet, as expected at closing. The tinny music of an iPhone rang out in sour notes and poppy tunes echoing through the dull and drafty building. 
It was located in a small college town, somewhere in the south just off of the interstate. A small blip in an even less significant area. Cathy wasn't expecting to end up working here, at a dead end job in a dead end town, and a couple bad grades away from dropping out of college. She sighed, as her cracked and dying phone assertively buzzed for a final time before powering off, dead. 
"Might as well do one last check before closing," she mumbled to herself as she pushed her way out of the worn down rolling chair. It was already past closing. She knew this of course, but what was another minute, another hour, another month of this monotonous routine. It was exhausting, but it was all she knew.
She stumbled past the flimsy plywood desk out into the tiled halls, her clumsy footsteps echoing in the dank and humid room. The air was sticky and thick, the type of summer humidity that left you drained and sweaty. She passed rows upon rows of the looming machines. 
"They just wash clothes after all. Nothing ominous here," She chuckled to herself, even as the machines loomed above her, ever present, ever washing. She couldn't help but feel sick to the stomach. 
Defiantly, row after row of the washers still stood spotless and pristine, not even a ball of lint left in them. Intimidating in their demeanor, Cathy quickly turned the corner to the next row, rows 13-14-15. She slowly began her work, pacing between the aisles.
It was the unmistakable residue of fingerprints, tacky to the touch and somewhat offset by the drying trail of water droplets that slowly traipsed their way half-heartedly down the inside of the glass door on washing-drying unit 13e. The two smudges on the inside of the machine were hand prints, as if someone was trying to push their way out. Like someone, or something had been inside the machine while it was running. It made her sick to the stomach, a curdled feeling that started in her gut and gushed its poison through her veins, setting her on edge. 
Pushing this to the back of her mind, Cathy left the door, slightly ajar, and continued to pack up.
With a wheezing rumble her worn out second hand car stuttered to life, floodlights illuminating fluttering moths in the stagnant air. It was heavy and thick, just like her auntie's drawl. God, what she would do to go back home. Nevermind that though, because this was her life now, forgotten, probably disowned.
She was reminded of this every lousy day, every failed test, every dull night spent with only the company of those monstrous steel machines. A break, a vacation, a breath of fresh air. 
"Jesus," she snickered to herself, ironic how she had such bright prospects. Her younger self would sneer at the person she had become. Her knuckles paled a bony white as she gripped down on the steering wheel, a blotchy gray. She found it somewhat amusing, as this was the only gray part of the car, the seats, patchy brown fur-like fabric that was matted from overuse and riddled with unknown stains. The perks of a resale care she supposed. The car itself seemed to be eternally dusty and grimy despite her best efforts and hours put towards cleaning it. Just another pitfall, just another day. 
Cathy was used to the heat, a Texas baby. But what she wasn't prepared for was the humidity. A thick sludge that oozed its sweaty residue on to your skin, fuzzing hair, and buzzing incessantly. It was disgusting, but Cathy had gotten used to it. Slowly but surely, she accepted her fate.
Breathe in, breathe out. She pulled wearily out of the parking lot, almost wishing that her balding tires would give up on her, but she pulled through. The night was thick as cheesecake, the dense sleazy Louisiana humidity that felt like hairspray and waking up next to someone you'll never know. Sweet and low like a hearty blues singer as the darkness caressed the hot metal of the autobody, yet still idly avoiding the floodlights that curiously ventured into the fog. 
At this time of night the roads were practically abandoned, and Cathy pretended that she was the last woman on earth. Even at this, she wondered if she would fight, if she would try to push on. On days like this she felt like giving up, like letting the darkness penetrate her and eat her alive. She sighed again, glancing into the soupy fog that lay low on the road. 
The thing that startled her most when she moved to this town was the overwhelming quiet. The nights when not even an owl dared hoot, and the whole of the swamps and the town laid still, like a sitting duck. She was jostled out of her thoughts as she meandered her way from rough pothole riddled pavement to an even rougher gravel driveway that crunched underneath her tires.
It almost reminded her of home; the dusty trailer park that was oh-so-friendly with bare feet and cool water hoses splashing in puddles around their heels. If you had asked her, Cathy wouldn't consider herself poor. Not homelessness, not uneducated. But there was always the winter with the barren pantry, and the scraps of preserves that could barely be called a meal. It wasn't that bad, she would say- but it was all she had ever known. 
She subconsciously shuddered, she was supposed to be the ticket out of nobodiness, she was the smart girl in a family of hillbillies. Unfortunately, her small-town education was nothing compared to the rich kid brainiacs with their trust funds and sweet sixteen Cadillacs.
The resentment that seemed to weigh her down was bitter and ceaseless, clinging on and never letting go. Although it faded over time it still lingered, like over-steeped tea as she pulled into her meager house, yard bristling with weeds and overgrown grass. She cringed at the sight, almost instinctively, as she tugged the key from the starter that it was previously jammed in.
She thought of the washer once more, of what the sudsy waters might hide from the ordinary eye. What wonders were concealed beneath a portal of bubbles and spray.
Something between a thud and a crunch disturbed the resting foggy air as she stepped out of her car, slamming the door. The world was hazy like this, a blurred camera lens. 
She felt robotic as she mechanically unlocked her door, shed her boots, and fell with a gentle thump onto her stiff mattress. Moment smeared together in a sickly mucus brown as she faded into unconsciousness. When she dreamt, she dreamt of blue, of frothy water, and a prince taking her away through the portal in the washing machine 13e.
The bedroom and the bathroom were the only real rooms that had gotten much use since her arrival. For the first month or so she had tried to cook. The unwashed dishes that cluttered within the large basin of the sink was proof of such efforts. But before long, her resolve had broken. Fast food wrappers and containers littered the floor of the kitchen, overflowing from the trash can with an emetic stench that Cathy had somehow grown accustomed to.
It was truly pathetic, and Cathy knew it, but she couldn't be bothered to change. She awoke from her restless slumber to thick sheets of rain, falling from the sky like billions of silver bullets that echoed through the brooding gray clouds. Even with the rainfall there came a heavy diseased silence, a silent hospital wing blanketed in silent mourning.
As Cathy tugged on her dirty uniform the sky continued to weep its lachrymose tears. With her now dressed she stepped out into the yard. Rain immediately soaked her clothing, but perhaps for the better as her personal hygiene had been cast aside. Shuffling through the grass she stared into the cloudy puddles collecting on her front drive. 
They seemed to reflect a warped version of herself, twisted flesh with matted hair and flies incessantly buzzing. She looked like a corpse; somewhat disturbed, but too senseless to give a damn, she carried on into the car.
Starting the engine once more, she noted how silent the roads were. Took note of how it reflected the laundromat's eerie essence. The chilling and somber gaze of the washers. Cathy closed her eyes and saw it, the cold monstrosities, the aisles, the handprint. The portal.
Funny how something so seemingly small could infiltrate the mind without a moment's notice. 
Or maybe it was truly as odd as it had seemed. Cathy had seen few customers that day, not that it was odd to have few customers, they were always empty; and whenever there were customers they typically chose one of the washers in front. And secondly, the washers were always pristine. The smooth metal, always shiny and immaculate, 'godlike' Cathy thought to herself before brushing that ridiculous thought aside. 
"It's a stupid machine, stop being so weird," she muttered to herself. Her tone was still slightly unsure, just on the brink of uncertainty. 
With those words Cathy pulled into the employee designated parking spaces behind the building, as the car splashed through the deeper puddles. Still completely soaked, Cathy entered the awakening store with the jingling of a bell perched on the door frame. She glanced towards the desk forcing a halfhearted smile onto her chapped lips.
"Hey, Trisha," she grumbled, eyeing up her short, faux-tanned, hair-fried coworker. 
"Hi, Cathy!" Trisha chirped back, bubbly and way too excited to be showing up to work in some dingy laundromat. "I hope you didn't mind closing up last night, I had to meet up with someone if you know what I mean!" She punctuated this last statement with an almost comical wink, although it was lost on Cathy who seemed to look directly through her. Although this seemed to startle Trisha, she wasn't one to be easily discouraged.
"Yeah, sure, Trish." Cathy mumbled, mind still focused on the abnormal hand print. Suddenly, she whirled around to face Trisha, "By the way," she paused, tongue resting on her upper lip, some old unbroken habit that she had no clue where she picked up, "Did you feel anything... weird about the washing machines this morning?" She paused again, squinting upwards into the ceiling.
"Pfft, no! The only weird thing about this morning is how you're acting" Trisha smirked with a flippant sigh, "Get hungover or whatever, drinking on the job miss Cathy? How scandalous!" She leaned forwards into Cathy's face with a knowing grin.
Much to her dismay, Trisha would get no response as to Cathy's devious activities, as Cathy replied, "No, it's nothing. Just thought I saw something last night. I'll go get ready for uh... opening." And with that, Cathy shuffled off to aisle 13-14-15.
Leaning down she could still see the large handprint from within the machine, the plea. Surely it had to mean something, for this handprint to remain. Cathy pressed her own clammy palm against the outside of the glass. This person, whoever they were, was just like her. Someone else in need of an escape. She peered into the organs of the washer one final time before moving on through the aisle. She knew there was something more to this machine, she just needed time to prove it.
Hours turned into weeks, which turned into a month. A month of waiting, impatiently patient for the time to come. Cathy seemed to spend more time at her work than house, her mind wandering and body wasting away. She only thought of the handprint, of the machine, and of course, escape. Most of all, Cathy longed for escape.
Ever since Cathy was a girl, she was prone to daydreaming. In class, at home, during chores. Maybe that's why her life seemed to be such a wreck. Always pining after the ideal had left her hollow and apathetic to the small joys. Her dreams of grand adventure, a great escape were limiting. She had only seen so much, been so far, but it didn't stop her from wishing. Wishing that one day she could hop into a portal and find a use of herself, to find something to fill the gaping void in her heart. Washing machine 13e.
Before she knew it it was closing again, after another monotonous day. As Trisha left with a final whoop and the laughter of her obnoxious boyfriend, the slamming of the fragile door was an announcement of her solidarity. She let the silence echo through her head, as the ripples calmed, the surface of her mind was smooth once more. Despite this calm appearance, something was churning beneath the calm façade.
Yet again she was drawn to washer 13e, but this time for a different reason. She knew something was up with this washer, and she was determined to figure out what was inside the machine. 
With a clunking noise, she pulled open the door, swinging her body to the side before shoving her head and torso inside. There had to be something more, some proof, something to show her that this was the answer. That the washing machine would save her. Frantically sweeping her hand along the bottom she felt something smooth and round clattering against the metal intestines of the machine, and she grabbed. 
Pulling her hand out she clutched a broken strand of pearls. Not real ones of course. They were the cheap plastic kind that children wore when they wanted to play princess like their mommies. Even though it was just some scrap of plastic, just some children's toy, it gave Cathy hope. It reminded her of her mother, and of fashion models. With a full heart and a hand full of plastic beads Cathy sighed wistfully, slumping ungracefully against the metal monstrosity- the beads still clutched against her chest.
Cathy didn't know what fashion was until she was eight and visiting her mother for the second time. Her mother was some high end fashion designer, a woman of high regard and even higher status. No wonder she had left Cathy's father behind. The most she remembered now was her deep black sunglasses, sharp and judging. Angular, like the edges of her face, although Cathy inherited neither her mother's intelligence or beauty. She remembered this day vividly, a rainy Saturday and Cathy was wearing overalls. 
Sharp lipstick and contoured jawlines, they strode down the aisle, gleaming under flashing cameras and loud music. Her gap-toothed grin was achy on her cheeks as her mother pointed out the dresses she had created. She remembers being taken backstage to be shown the sketches, she remembers the models fawning over her. Crisp edges smoothed by shiny smiles.
She remembers her mother unclasping her necklace, a string of pearls, and flipping her hair over it. She can still feel her father's rough hands tugging at the delicate jewelry and tossing the necklace to the floor, broken. Her eyes stung as she was thrust back into reality, her back flush against the washing machine door. "The door with the hand print," she thought, as she tucked the play necklace into her pocket.
The floor was dirty and cold, stray hairs sticking to the static linoleum, but Cathy barely noticed. It wasn't much different from her own dumpster fire of a house. On her knees, she peered into the belly of the beast, the faded hand print taunting her. Although she admitted this thought was wild, she couldn't help but wonder- 'Is there something inside the machine?'
That night, Cathy stayed at the laundromat, locked inside with the washers like Daniel in the lion's den. Despite the context of the situation, Cathy was rather content dreaming of some shining prince to burst out of machine 13e and whisk her away to a better place. This ridiculous thought brought a small, fragmented smile to her tight lips. 
'Would she be willing to leave this all behind?' She mused to herself. Thinking of Trisha and the customers. Without a second thought she decided that if someone were here to rescue her she would gladly leave her shitty life behind. 
Supposing she deserved a toast to herself, she rummaged through the bins and cabinet that was arranged in a ramshackle office type setting to find what she was looking for. After minutes of searching she triumphantly thrust her hand out of a drawer clutching a half empty bottle of cough syrup.
The atmosphere of the room was cloudy and thick as she manically gulped down the sickly sweet formula. With every swig it left a nauseating film that coated her throat and numbed her senses. Cathy was lonely, sad, and pathetic- but somehow, some way she knew that machine 13e would save her. The medicine left the bittersweet taste of desire.
She could feel the pinpricks of tears return but now she let them flow freely down her distorted blotchy face. "WHAT THE FUCK!" she screamed, guttural and high as it vibrated through her sore throat, and she continued to scream. It took the air from her lungs and she could feel the bile rise up in her throat although she pushed it back down, eyes wide and peeled open, red and shiny from lack of sleep.
In a drugged state she stumbled to the thing that had dominated her thoughts for the last month. The world seemed to spin spastic around her as she lifted her foot and stepped forwards. With a flamboyant stumble forwards she clung onto the washing machine like a lifesaver. Her sticky palms squealed as they slid down the smooth exterior of the appliance 
With her cheek pressed against the coolness of the door she stared into the seemingly limitless void of the washer. Nubby fingers clenched against the rubbery-plastic handle. With a gentle click, she opened the washer. Serenely pressing buttons, choosing settings, powering the machine on with the comforting whir that she was surrounded with more times than not.
She was always a small girl, underfed and a little too lean. When she was still a kid they told her she was fit, when she was a teen they called her pretty. Now they called it an eating disorder, but what did they know? This is how she had lived for as long as she could remember, and honestly, she couldn't care less about what people said about her. She knew she was cowardly.
Curled up in the fetal position she managed to cram herself inside of the appliance, head bent awkwardly against the cool metal. With slippery fingers she scratched against the foggy glass door, but was somehow able to close it. She could feel the humming and whirring of the machine as it began to start the automatic wash. 
Thud. 
Her head cracked against the insides as it began to spin, whirring faster and faster until Cathy felt weightless. Fluids suspended in midair as she was flung against the machine over and over. 
As the machine thudded and flung her limp body against the metal insides she imagined it was a prince spinning her away. She could feel the blood rushing to her head, spinning and whirling around, the contents of her stomach traveling up into her esophagus as the spin cycle continued and the water poured in. 
Sudsy water splashed against her face, stinging her eyes and adding to her delirium as she grew dizzier and dizzier. Vomit erupted from her cracked lips, putrid chunks of half digested fries, meat, flew out of her mouth mixing with the frothy water in an acrid whirlpool.
Frantically, she gargled letting in the disgusting soup-like mixture, pleading for a portal to open, praying that she was right. Her eyes welled up as she felt her rib cage crack with another blow, a sharp, screaming agony that left her breathless and weak.
Another slam, more water, another spin. She was giving up, the centrifugal force forcing the air from her lungs, the water from her body. Blood oozed through her pores, veins smashed and bruising. Everything ached, her bones, her head, her bloody fuchsia skin. Another rocking thud, and her eyes buzzed with the surging bright fluorescence that shone with the power of the sun. 
Cathy knew she was done for. She could tell that this was it as her eyeballs burst with a squelching splattering of pus.
With her final thoughts she wondered, did she ever really think that there was a way out? Did she ever truly believe that there was a portal in washing machine 13e? Or was it a pitiful excuse, a reasoning behind a cowardly suicide.
She would never know.
Category:Items/Objects
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Places