The bucket jostled a little, and a small amount of its sudsy contents sloshed onto the hardwood floor. On his knees, bent over a spot on the floor was a man, running the stiff bristles of a scrub brush over the spot. On occasion, a boot would kick him in the side, and there would be some laughter. Once or twice, he was picked up and punched and kicked around, just so that he would bleed, adding to the stain already there.
“Ain’t that a bite.” one of the other men in the room said with a chuckle.
“Not anymore.” came the accented voice of another, lifting about forty pounds of dead weight, before unceremoniously dropping it. A crunch sounded when it hit the floor, though it took a little longer for the fluttering fabric to settle down. “Bee’s knees.” he said with a grin, and the group of four laughed.
Around that time, heavy footsteps sounded from the stairs and approached them, dropping another object onto the floor unceremoniously, this time a dozen pounds or so north of one hundred. More sickening noises as it landed.
“How long you planning on making the kraut do this?” one of them asked the new arrival.
“Until we get bored. As far as I’m concerned, that’s going to be all night.” he said, chuckling.
The behavior continued. Essentially, whenever they thought it would be funny to add to the mess, they would add to it, typically by pulling viscera from the bodies on the floor. The man kept scrubbing through it all, seemingly focused only on the scrubbing. He was not, however, unaware of what was going on around him.
He had been keenly aware of the vampires feeding on them after he had been forced to scrub the bloody mess they’d made. It was largely his blood, as he had fought madly to try and save them. He was unlikely to forget the screams, or the torment thrust upon him. His only break was by command, and that was to move the bodies out of the house, to a wooded area not far. The bodies were left there, and he was marched back to the house, its happy memories now tainted with horror.
Upon entering the house, he was treated like a dog, his face forced into the remaining blood and viscera, shoved fully into it until he couldn’t breathe from the pressure, and then let go, forced to continue cleaning. Something in him broke, though it wasn’t noticed at first. After a time, he began to occasionally mutter under his breath. Not often enough to be annoying, but it was always the same phrase: Raus, verdammter Ort! raus, sage ich! He would mutter.
Eventually, the accented fellow asked one of the others. “Anyone know what he’s saying?”
“Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” the leader said after a while.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s from Macbeth.” he responded. “It’s a Shakespeare thing.” he looked around a while, then looked at the rest of his pack. “I’m bored. Let’s get out of here.”
“What should we do with him?” one of the others asked.
“Leave him. He’ll stop eventually.” he said, and started heading out, the others following after.
In the morning, after the sun had fully risen, the scrubbing continued. The water was gone, the bristles on the brush were worn, but he still kept going, until his body gave out. It would be hours before he was some semblance of himself again, and the processing could begin.
~ ~ ~
Cruel, was the only word he could think of as he stood atop a small hill, the scent of springtime and fresh mown grass in the air. He stood there, listening, as birds chirped merrily in the trees, lingering only long enough to salvage some peace of mind, and see to business at hand. He wrung his hands nervously after a moment or two, and noted some scarring near his fingertips from the hours spent scrubbing. Abruptly, he turned heel and left, unable to keep himself there any longer. Behind him lay two stones. Nothing spectacular. In fact, they weren’t much different from any of the others. All that marked their difference, was their message.
| Sarah Elizabeth Wagner | Christina Rose Wagner |
| 1958-1964 | 1938-1964 |
| Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. | Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart. |