The mud.
The mud.
The mud.
This was utterly beyond the pale. Why? How? What?
Boudica was dressed this time, a gray pencil skirt and white blouse with no blazer, but she strongly considered going back upstairs. Not that it would help. It had itched at her enough to wake her up, even before he'd gone to sleep. Lying upstairs with her skin crawling would still, surely, be better than this nonsensical atrocity.
She didn't even check the other rooms before she dropped to her knees and started scrubbing. She couldn't stand it, she couldn't possibly stand it, if something didn't get done about the mud immediately then her throat would close up and her lungs would shrivel. That was what it felt like, at least. She'd had enough foresight not to wear a jacket. She didn't know when she would be able to get away with wearing a jacket again. It was always something, wasn't it, dust and sugar and mud and iron and who even knew what else. For so many years it had been nothing but detail work, but how would she ever find time to dust the molding when there was mud seeping between the floorboards?
When the floor was bearable, clean enough by most standards but not by hers, she stood to check the other rooms. Bailing water on a sinking ship, that was what it felt like. How could any one man make such a mess?
The floor of the laundry room was covered in the drippings of pages upon pages, all hung up on the line. She didn't even know where to begin, and settled for cleaning the floor. Just enough that nothing would be ruined, and she could see to the inevitable wax abomination in the kitchen.
The kitchen was the final straw. The final straw was sprawled on the floor, as if he did not have a perfectly good bed with nice clean sheets in his nice clean bedroom.
Awful, monstrous, unutterably wretched creature.
She couldn't even clean the wax, not without risking that she might wake him. Something in his hand, but she couldn't read it while he held it, not unless she wanted to get very close. Which she did not. For the better, if it was a note; she needed to put an immediate stop to those shenanigans. To any and all shenanigans. No more shenaning on her part.
He hadn't even left any gifts out. Still hadn't gotten rid of the iron. It would serve him right if she burned the house down.
He'd probably enjoy living in the burnt-out husk, the wretch.
The kitchen would simply have to wait. She'd tend more thoroughly to the other rooms, scrub and polish and dust until her knees and fingers all ached.
And then — because it made her feel better and because she was feeling spiteful — she polished a violin. A single ominously gleaming violin, put neatly away in a room with a shining floor.
The mud.
The mud.
This was utterly beyond the pale. Why? How? What?
Boudica was dressed this time, a gray pencil skirt and white blouse with no blazer, but she strongly considered going back upstairs. Not that it would help. It had itched at her enough to wake her up, even before he'd gone to sleep. Lying upstairs with her skin crawling would still, surely, be better than this nonsensical atrocity.
She didn't even check the other rooms before she dropped to her knees and started scrubbing. She couldn't stand it, she couldn't possibly stand it, if something didn't get done about the mud immediately then her throat would close up and her lungs would shrivel. That was what it felt like, at least. She'd had enough foresight not to wear a jacket. She didn't know when she would be able to get away with wearing a jacket again. It was always something, wasn't it, dust and sugar and mud and iron and who even knew what else. For so many years it had been nothing but detail work, but how would she ever find time to dust the molding when there was mud seeping between the floorboards?
When the floor was bearable, clean enough by most standards but not by hers, she stood to check the other rooms. Bailing water on a sinking ship, that was what it felt like. How could any one man make such a mess?
The floor of the laundry room was covered in the drippings of pages upon pages, all hung up on the line. She didn't even know where to begin, and settled for cleaning the floor. Just enough that nothing would be ruined, and she could see to the inevitable wax abomination in the kitchen.
The kitchen was the final straw. The final straw was sprawled on the floor, as if he did not have a perfectly good bed with nice clean sheets in his nice clean bedroom.
Awful, monstrous, unutterably wretched creature.
She couldn't even clean the wax, not without risking that she might wake him. Something in his hand, but she couldn't read it while he held it, not unless she wanted to get very close. Which she did not. For the better, if it was a note; she needed to put an immediate stop to those shenanigans. To any and all shenanigans. No more shenaning on her part.
He hadn't even left any gifts out. Still hadn't gotten rid of the iron. It would serve him right if she burned the house down.
He'd probably enjoy living in the burnt-out husk, the wretch.
The kitchen would simply have to wait. She'd tend more thoroughly to the other rooms, scrub and polish and dust until her knees and fingers all ached.
And then — because it made her feel better and because she was feeling spiteful — she polished a violin. A single ominously gleaming violin, put neatly away in a room with a shining floor.
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Sugar Cubes & Cobwebs 1x1 - by danixiewrites - 11-17-2015, 11:49 PM
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