Crashing

The street lamp flickered as Milo walked under it, the wiring on its last threads. He passed dark building after dark building, before his lowered gaze caught the reflection of the laundromat sign in the puddles of rain water pooling in the cracked and overgrown sidewalk. Opening the door, the scent of mildew and dryer sheets wrestled for their place in his nose. As he set the big bag of laundry down on the floor in front of a washer, a ping from the phone in his pocket drew his attention.

[Look at this huge stuffed animal Anne has! I’m so jealous.]

[Would you like something like that for your birthday next month?]

[Nah, that’s okay. I’m sure it’s expensive. Something small would be better for our little apartment anyway lol]

[Fair enough. Make sure you have fun tonight, don’t spend too much time texting me.]

[Will do! Love you!]

[Love you too sis. See you in the morning.]

He clicked off the screen and knelt down to sort out the laundry. The first shirt he pulled out was covered in paint. “Damn it Emily…” he said with a long sigh. “You know acrylic doesn’t wash out.” He set the shirt aside. Socks, shorts, shirts. It was a blur of fabric passing him into the machines and he filled them as much as he could. He put eight quarters in the slots of the first one and turned to the next machine.

When the bag was empty, he sank down onto the floor in front of the running washers and scratched a hand through his oily hair. In the flickering fluorescent lighting, rows of tan metal boxes reflected in the window was all he could see. No one was around. Even the night manager seemed to be absent. 

‘You really should sleep more Milo, look at those bags under your eyes.’

“I know, I know,” he whispered to himself. 

‘Your mother’s worried about you Milo. You need to start taking care of yourself better.’

“I know… I know,” he said, drawing a shaky breath in. He raised a hand to his cheek and felt the uneven grooves in his skin. 

‘Milo-’

“Enough, please.” A single tear fell down his face, cracking the moldy tiles under his feet. Startled, he felt the tile, but it was smooth under his fingertips. The mold in the caulking grew up over his fingers and he flinched back. Examining his hand, it was clean. He stood up with a shiver and turned to the washer. It tumbled in place and the lull of the unbalanced load calmed his nerves. He dragged a hand down his face and stepped over to the vending machine. Most of the little spiral racks were empty. Pop tarts, a granola bar, snickers, and pretzels were all that remained alongside the water and a single red gatorade. His finger hovered over the button for the snickers bar. 

‘Sugar at this time of night? You’ll rot your teeth!’

He waved the voice away like a gnat and chose the granola bar and water instead. Nibbling the granola bar, he stared blankly at the rows of laundry machines. The hum of the running loads drifting back to him.

‘Milo.’

“Stop it.” His teeth clicked together, biting through air. The granola bar was gone. Had he eaten through it already? He glanced down. It was still there, in his hand, only half eaten. His stomach turned. After a few glances between the trash can and his wallet, he forced the rest of it down, nearly choking on it as the first washer buzzed. 

Moving the wet clothes to the dryer, the feeling of the sopping fabric brought the aftermath of that moment back to him. His grip on the wet shirts and pants tightened. The screeching tires, his heart pounding in his chest, the feeling of his stomach suspended in the air before crashing down, the shattered glass that sliced his face, the screams, the bodies heavy and wet as he cradled them. 

The second washer buzzed. He jumped and dropped the clothes on the floor. No matter how many times he came here, that noise always pierced through his head like a bullet clearing away his nightmares. He finished emptying the washers into the dryers across the way. Slamming the second dryer door shut, the rest of the world snapped away with it. Milo looked up. The whir of the first dryer echoed incessantly, bouncing off invisible walls in a void of the same aggravating fluorescent white that washed out every rotting detail of the laundromat. 

“It’s okay, Milo,” a soft voice said behind him, clear as day. 

He spun around, but he was back in the laundromat, staring at his reflection in the window. Swallowing hard, Milo started the second dryer and laid down on the bench. The wood splintered under his weight and stabbed into his arms like shards of glass. He sat back up and looked down, but the bench wasn’t so much as bent. Milo rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, tears leaking through in spite of himself. The more he cried, the more the tiles shattered beneath him, his feet overcome by the mold and fungus rising from the floor. Even as he chewed air with his uneven sobs and splinters drove deep into his thighs, he cried. 

And cried. 

And cried. 

Even the buzzing of the dryers couldn’t shake him free of this pain. 

Slowly the fungus watered by his tears swallowed him. He hacked on the spores in his lungs. His eyes itched and burned and, in that darkness, he stumbled. Falling into the abyss where all the laundry machines were left to rust, he thought he was dying, but four gentle hands caught him and held him. The warmth of their touch, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer, enveloped him and cleared away the mold on his soul. And for the first time in an eternity, he slept. 

A gentle ping echoed in his ears. His eyes cracked open, as if they had been glued shut, and were blinded by the sun pouring in through the window. Despite the dull ache permeating his body, he sat up and unlocked his phone. 

[Good morning Milo! What time are you picking me up today? Excited for our picnic later!]

He stared at the message for a moment, feeling his sister’s smile coming through. Emily used to cry all the time. She cried at the hospital. She cried at his bedside. She cried at the funeral. She cried all the way home. She cried at school to the point he had to pick her up. She cried for weeks on end after. Until finally, her tears stopped and she had begun smiling again. She had finally moved forward. 

During all that time, he had stood beside her, was strong for her, and honestly couldn’t recall if he had shed a single tear. A small smile slipped onto his face as he texted her back. Maybe he could cry with her next time. Maybe it was finally his turn to move forward. He unpacked the dryers, tied off the bag of clean clothes, and left the laundromat behind, his gaze on the morning sky.

It felt good to smile again.