Washing Machine Hearts

“The distance only exists to those who perceive the concept of space,” the hollowed voice whispered in the wind, brushing against my ear. 

I curled up, clutching my knees to my chest as the sound of the washing and drying machines pounded rhythmically in sync with the heavy beating before my heart. 

The dimmed fluorescent lights flickered like my eyelids, struggling with exhaustion. 

I can’t sleep. 

I cannot sleep. 

If I sleep, they’ll get me.

If I shut my eyes, they’ll never reopen. 

I had tried leaving. Of course, I had tried leaving. It would prove futile and only another disappointment to try again. Whenever I tug on the exit door, I hear their angry wails, almost as if they were insulted by the action. Their screams become forks against plates, before I blink and get teleported back to my original crying corner.

I shouldn’t have left home.

I ran away. Mister, the laundromat owner, was the only one I felt I could trust. He always wore a tux or some other expensive shit. His hair was amber and his eyes were a kindness that matched. And so, I hid at his oh-so-fine place of establishment. (It was rather unkept). Before I knew it, it was closing time and I couldn’t bring myself to reveal myself so I stayed hidden. I stayed hidden as he mopped the floors. I stayed hidden as he powered off the machines. I stayed hidden as he switched the lights off. I stayed hidden as he locked the doors. 

It wasn’t long before I figured I wasn’t alone. The walls seemed to ache in agony. The lights and machines came back to life. The gray corridors never seemed to end. The whispers never seemed to mute. They didn’t want me to leave. 

I trace each line of the cuts that somehow within the time ended on my skin. I can’t say how the cuts ended up there, and I can’t say that I exactly care to know, anyway. I’ve gotten plenty of cuts over time. What’s another three…or seven…? I counted more this time. Huh. How...curious. 

I stare into one of the dryers, watching as they go round and round. Like a spiral. Like the spiral cut on the back of my neck that appeared sometime when I was little. Again, I can’t imagine how.

“Get up.” The whisper suddenly spoke again to me, cutting through my thoughts.

I buried my head far into my knees, hoping it’ll go away if I don’t acknowledge it.

“Get up, Reverie!” The whisper turned into a roar and before I could stop myself, I was standing upright.

Damnit.

“What do you want from me?!” I yelled back, throwing up a rather very pleasant gesture with a finger on each hand, only to get no response. 

I scoffed and whipped my head to the right to see a black figure swiftly retreating. I started to do the smart thing and turn the other way, except for the fact my body froze in place. I grit my teeth before sighing and giving into the whisper’s will by following the black figure. 

My footsteps echoed through the halls as I squinted my eyes to see—the area becoming less and less lit. 

I was saving my phone battery in case of something more important, but I’m not really given a choice here. Besides, there was no signal. That was another odd thing. Mister prided himself on free WiFi and good reception or whatever, so it was never out.

I turned my phone flashlight on, which caused the figure to screech and run. I covered my ears immediately with a grunt, dropping and cracking my phone.

I reached down to pick my phone up; it works, for the most part, but the flashlight is too cracked and too broken to use.

Double damnit.

I guess the little shit doesn’t like direct light. 

I inhaled deeply— recollecting myself—then, I began to follow wherever it ran off to.

The floor boards began to creak with each step as we entered a new territory of the laundromat. The shelves were stocked with extra laundry detergent, irons and iron boards, and drier sheets along with machine equipment. Several bulbs were broken. The storage room. 

“What are we doing here? What, you ran out of fabric softener?” I said aloud dryly, reaching down to pick up an abandoned bottle cap as I explored the room.

Suddenly, I dodged a flying shoe just by a mouse's hair. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?! You can’t use your words?! You can’t even show your face, yet you expect me to follow you into a fucking dark room for no reason at all! You could at least tell me why!” I shouted, becoming both frustrated and irritated. I feel like I’ve only gone down a rabbit hole that has taken me nowhere closer to getting out of this hellhole.

I scoffed and stomped over to the shoe. I barely got a glimpse before recoiling back into a shelf, causing several supplies to hit the floor–the sound echoing through the building. 

I closed my eyes and counted the cuts on my body by feeling once again, “three..seven…thirteen.” Five more than before.

After a few seconds, my racing heart slowed. I opened my eyes and reapproached the shoe. 

I examined the shoe, my stomach twisting with unease. The shoe held a foot inside of it, the leg cut at the shin. Severely bloodied. The smell was a horrid, pungent scent, like roadkill that has been abandoned and bruised for weeks on cold concrete. 

I released a sharp, loud curse in the form of a scream as the shoe leapt up in the air, as if it was in a rush and being controlled by Zephyrus himself. I chased the shoe out the storage room–passing the vending machines, office, and janitorial closet as the walls seemed to be becoming smaller by each step.

No, no, no, no. NO! Whatever breath I still had left my chest immediately, as if someone grabbed my lungs and ranged it like a rag. The shoe entered the room that I swore to never go in, the door slamming behind it. Mister told me not to enter the room. Mister would yell at me whenever I got too close. Mister was nice, yes, but he was always a different person whenever I questioned the room. It scared me. If I lose Mister’s trust I won’t have anyone. I will have nothing. 

I can’t!

I can’t

I can’t—--

The sound of sharp crying pierced through my racing thoughts like a scythe through one’s soul. It was a quiet, pitiful song that played my heartstrings like a master guitarist. I swallowed my fears and reached for the handle. My hesitance wished for resistance, only to be met by the knob turning easily. I held my breath as I pushed the door open. 

The mysterious figure I had met before weeped at the center of the room; the sound and image of it became clearer, revealing a frightened child. The child turned to me, eyes filled with sorrow from the depths of our own regrets. A spiral scar tainted its cheek.

The room was aligned with ongoing washing machines. Through one of the washing machine’s glass doors, I saw clothes stained crimson spinning in spirals. At first, I believed that someone had merely washed a red shirt with the whites or something, but upon closer inspection—it was the blood of the damned and distressed.

I slowly stepped back, foot by foot until I reached another washing machine touching my back. I yelped and shut my eyes. 

The crying child’s song was too strong to ignore, snapping my lids back open. Since I could not count my cuts by feel, I counted the washing machines. Three…Seven…Thirteen. Thirteen exactly like the cuts on my arms.

I mastered up my courage once again and steadily neared one of the washing machines. The clock ticked on the wall–no doubt it was inaccurate; time and space ceased to exist here. I stared for moments through the washing machine door window before I spotted a deceased child’s eye staring back at me.

My gasp was stolen by the snap opening of my eyes and the demanding alarm clock screaming at my ears.

“Reverie! Breakfast’s ready!” A woman’s voice sang to me.

My throat began to close up, my hands became sweaty. I grabbed my hair, nearly pulling it out as my eyes swelled. I ran to my closet and squeezed my eyes shut.

The laundromat felt so–too real. I know that I ran away earlier. That woman’s voice? My mother. The mother who died years ago. I rubbed my arms anxiously, and realised that the scars of each deceased washing machine child no longer marred my arms as my mind fogged, losing consciousness.