Spin Cycle

               Micah Tupuola had been inside the laundromat for 11 minutes when an old woman carried a garbage bag full of blood through the front door. He noticed the bag first. Black plastic. Tied twice. Wet at the bottom. The woman carried it against her chest as though it contained groceries. Micah looked from her to the wall clock. 12:47am. Perfect. He had already decided that spending the night washing uniforms at a 24-hour laundromat in Pago Pago was about as miserable as adulthood could get.

               Apparently adulthood had taken that personally. The woman crossed the room without looking at him. She wore a floral dress and rubber sandals. Gray hair hung almost to her waist. She stopped at Washer 14. Micah watched her untie the bag. Something inside shifted. Not laundry. Too heavy. Too wet. The woman pushed the entire bag into the machine. No detergent. No quarters. She closed the door. Washer 14 started by itself.

               Micah stared. The drum turned. Once. Twice. Then something slammed against the glass.

               THUD.

               Micah stood.

               THUD.

               The woman sat in a plastic chair.

               THUD.

               Red began spreading across the window.

               “Ma’am?” She did not look at him. “Ma’am?”

               THUD.

               Blood filled the machine. Micah crossed the room. “What the hell is in there?”

               The woman looked up. Her face was blank. “That isn't mine.”

               “What?”

               She stood. “That isn't mine.” Then she walked out.

               Micah watched the door close behind her. Washer 14 stopped. Silence. Micah stared at the dark red glass. “Fuck.” He should have called the police. Instead, he opened the washer. Empty. Not mostly empty. Completely empty.

               No blood.

               No bag.

               Nothing.

               Micah stood there with one hand on the door. Then he laughed. Quietly. “Okay.” He closed it. His own machines continued turning behind him. Washers 3, 4, and 6. Work uniforms. Towels. Sheets. The water in his apartment building had been shut off for two days after a ruptured line. He had work at seven and nothing clean left. That was why he was here. That was the only reason.

               He sat back down. At 1:36am, another customer entered. This one was a man. Micah recognized him. He stood so quickly the plastic chair tipped over. “Uncle Tasi?” The man walked past him. Micah stared. His uncle had died nine years ago. Stroke. Micah had helped carry the casket. “Uncle?” Tasi stopped at Washer 14. Black garbage bag. Same size. Same wet bottom. “No.”

               Tasi opened the machine. Micah grabbed his arm. Cold. Not skin cold. Refrigerator cold. Tasi looked at him. “You still lie about it?”

               Micah released him. “What?”

               Tasi pushed the bag inside. The washer started.

               THUD.

               “About what?”

               THUD.

               Blood spread across the glass. Tasi sat. “You know.”

               “No.”

               “You always knew.”

               Micah backed away. “You aren't him.”

               Tasi smiled. “No.” The washer stopped. Tasi stood. “Not yet.”

               Then he walked outside. Micah ran after him. Empty parking lot. Nothing but his own truck beneath the fluorescent lights. He returned inside. Washer 14 was empty. Again.

               At 2:03am, Micah tried leaving. His uniforms were not finished, but he no longer cared. He shoved wet clothes into a basket. The front door would not open. He pulled harder. Locked. “Come on.” He slammed his shoulder against it. Nothing. He tried the emergency exit. Locked. Phone. No signal. He dialed 911 anyway. Call failed. “Of course.”

               Behind him, every washing machine stopped simultaneously. Micah turned. Silence. Then Washer 14 clicked. Its door opened. Water dripped onto the tile. Seawater. Micah smelled it immediately.

               Salt.

               Rot.

               Low tide.

               Something pale lay inside the drum. Micah approached. A hand. Small. Bloated. Fingers wrinkled from water. “No.” The drum turned slightly. A face appeared. Micah fell backward. “Sione.” His brother's eyes opened.

               Sione had been 15. Micah had been 17. Everyone knew the story. The brothers had gone swimming. Current got strong. Sione panicked. Micah tried to save him. Sione drowned. Terrible accident. Family tragedy. Micah had repeated the story so many times it no longer felt like lying. Sione crawled from Washer 14. Water poured from his mouth. His skin was gray. His stomach swollen. A tear in his cheek exposed teeth through the side of his face. Micah backed away. “No.”

               Sione stood. His wet feet slapped tile. “Why didn't you pull me out?”

               “I tried.”

               Sione stopped. “No.”

               “We got caught in the current.”

               “No.”

               “You panicked.”

               Sione tilted his head. “No.”

               Micah shouted. “That's what happened!”

               Every machine started. Not turning. Banging. Something inside each drum struck the doors from within.

               THUD.

               THUD.

               THUD.

               THUD.

               Micah covered his ears. Sione walked closer. “What happened?”

               Micah shook his head. “You know.”

               “We were fighting.”

               Sione nodded. Micah could barely breathe. “You took my watch.”

               “You said Dad gave it to you.”

               “He did.”

               “You were lying.”

               “You pushed me.”

               “You pushed me first.”

               Sione smiled. His lips split farther along his damaged cheek. “Then what?”

               Micah closed his eyes. “No.”

               “What?”

               “I held you.”

               “Where?”

               Micah began crying. “Under.”

               The machines stopped. Sione stood directly in front of him. “How long?”

               “I don't know.”

               “You do.”

               “No.”

               “You counted.” Micah looked at him. Sione's ruined face softened. “You always counted.”

               Micah remembered. Not all at once. In pieces. Sione laughing. The watch. Their father's watch. Micah grabbing him. Sione shoving back. Water to their waists. Micah tackling him. Both falling. Sione coming up laughing. Micah furious. Micah grabbing the back of Sione's neck. Pushing him under.

               Ten seconds.

               Fifteen.

               Sione thrashing.

               Twenty.

               Micah pulling him up. Sione coughing. Calling him an asshole. Then Sione said something about their father. Micah pushed him under again.

               Thirty seconds.

               Forty.

               Sione's hands clawing Micah's arms.

               Fifty.

               Micah remembered thinking:

               Just a little longer.

               Then Sione stopped moving. Micah released him. Sione floated face-down. Micah screamed. Tried CPR. Dragged him ashore. Too late. “I didn't mean to kill you.”

               Sione stared. “I know.”

               Micah sobbed. “That doesn't make it better.”

               “No.”

               “I was 17.”

               “Yes.”

               “I was a kid.”

               “So was I.”

               At 2:41am, the water began rising. It came first from Washer 14. Then the others. Seawater spilled beneath every machine. Micah climbed onto a folding table. “What do you want?”

               Sione stood ankle-deep in water. “Clean.”

               “What?”

               The wall behind him changed. For one second it was tile. Then something underneath pushed through. Faces. Dozens. Men. Women. Children. All dead. All wet. Some burned. Some bruised. Some missing pieces. Micah screamed. Sione looked at them. “This place washes things people carry.”

               “What does that mean?”

               “Not clothes.” One of the faces opened its eyes. A woman with a crushed skull. Then another. A boy with purple marks around his neck. Another. An elderly man with a plastic bag stretched over his face. Sione pointed toward the machines. “People come in after midnight.”

               “They bring bodies?”

               “No.”

               “Then what?”

               “Stories.”

               Washer 8 began spinning. A man appeared inside. Not physically. Like an image behind glass. He was kneeling over a woman. Strangling her. Washer 11. A teenage girl driving. Looking at her phone. Impact. Washer 5. A mother shaking a baby. Micah looked away. “No.”

               Sione shook his head. “Watch.”

               “I don't want to.”

               “Neither did they.”

               Washer 14 opened. A black garbage bag sat inside. Micah knew before touching it. “What's in there?” Sione said nothing. Micah pulled it out. Heavy. Warm. He untied it. Clothes. His clothes. The shirt he wore the day Sione died. Shorts. Shoes. The watch. Micah stared at it. Their father's watch. Police never found it. Micah had told them Sione must have lost it in the water. “How?”

               Sione pointed toward the washer. “Put them in.” Micah shook his head. “Put them in.”

               “What happens?”

               “Depends.”

               “On what?”

               “What you're trying to clean.”

               Micah looked at the bloodless drum. Then at Sione. “Will it bring you back?”

               Sione laughed. Water spilled through his teeth. “No.”

               “Then what does it do?”

               Sione stepped closer. “It makes the stain visible.”

               Micah shoved the clothes inside. Washer 14 started. No quarters. No detergent. The drum rotated. Micah watched. His old shirt soaked dark. Water turned pink. Then red. Then black. The machine shook. Something screamed inside. Not Sione. Micah. His own voice. He staggered backward. The washer spun faster. The glass began bulging outward.

               CRACK.

               Micah ducked. The door exploded. Water blasted across the room. The old clothes landed at his feet. Clean. Perfectly clean. Except the shirt contained a message. Dark letters had appeared across the chest.

               I HELD HIM DOWN.

               Micah stared. “No.” Behind him, every dryer door opened. Teeth poured out. Thousands. Human teeth. They bounced across the floor like hail. Micah screamed. Fingernails followed. Hair spilled from the vents. Long ropes of it. Then something wrapped around his ankle. Hair. Micah fell. It dragged him toward Washer 14. “No!” He grabbed the leg of the table. The hair tightened. More strands twisted around his calf. His hands slipped. Sione watched. “Help me!”

               “I asked you that.” Micah froze. Sione's face changed. Not monstrous. Fifteen again. Terrified. Micah remembered his brother's hands reaching through the water. Remembered those eyes. Remembered choosing not to stop. Micah released the table.

               Washer 14 swallowed him feet first. It should not have been possible. The opening was too small. His hips struck metal. Then pressure crushed him inward. Bones shifted. Micah screamed. His shoulder dislocated. His knees folded against his chest. The door closed. Darkness. Then water. Cold. Saltwater filled the drum. Micah beat against the glass. Outside, Sione stood watching. The washer began turning. Slowly. Micah's body rolled. Shoulder. Back. Head. His face struck metal.

               Again.

               Again.

               Again.

               Then something rough entered the water. Not detergent. Sand. No. Salt. Coarse crystals scraped his skin. The drum accelerated. Micah screamed underwater. His skin rubbed against perforated steel.               Once.

               Twice.

               Again.

               The first layer came away from his shoulders. Blood clouded the water. Micah clawed at the door. The washer spun faster. Skin peeled from his back. His thigh. His hip. He screamed until water filled his mouth. The drum stopped. Micah floated. The door opened. Sione stood there. “Clean yet?”

               Micah vomited water. “Please.”

               Sione crouched. “What happened?”

               “I killed you.”

               “Again.”

               “I killed you.”

               “Again.”

               “I KILLED YOU!!!”

               The washer started.

               At 4:16am, the police received a call. Micah made it himself. He did not remember getting out of the machine. He remembered crawling. Blood. Tile. His phone somehow working. The dispatcher asking his emergency. Micah answering:

               “I murdered my brother.”

               Then he laughed. The dispatcher asked whether his brother was in danger.

               “No.”

               Where was his brother?

               “Here.”

               Was he breathing?

               Micah looked toward Washer 14. Sione sat inside. “No.”

               How old was his brother?

               “Fifteen.”

               Where were they?

               Micah told her.

               Then added:

               “He's been dead 12 years.”

               The dispatcher went silent.

               Officer Lani Polamalu arrived at 4:31am. The laundromat doors stood open. Every machine was off. Micah sat naked inside Washer 14. At first Lani thought he had been burned. Then she realized most of his skin was missing. Not all. Enough. His back was raw muscle. Both shoulders were stripped. His legs looked flayed in broad patches. Blood covered the inside of the machine. Micah was conscious. Barely. “Sir?”

               His eyes opened. “I held him down.”

               “Who?”

               “Sione.”

               Paramedics entered. Micah began screaming when they tried removing him. “No! Wait!”

               “Sir, we need to help you.”

               “HE'S IN THERE!!!”

               “Who?”

               “My brother.” The paramedic looked inside the washer. Nothing. Micah pointed across the room. “Fourteen.”

               “You're in 14.”

               Micah stopped. “No.”

               “Yes.”

               He looked down. At himself. At the bloody drum. Then toward Washer 3. Its door had opened. A human foot protruded. Lani drew her weapon. Everyone froze. The paramedics approached. Inside Washer 3 was a body. Male. Teenage. Waterlogged. Decomposed. A watch remained around one wrist. Micah began laughing. Then crying. Then screaming.

               “Sione!!!”

               DNA confirmed the body three days later. Sione Tupuola. Micah's younger brother. The problem was that Sione Tupuola had already been buried. His funeral had taken place 12 years earlier. His parents had identified the body. The family had buried him beneath a white stone overlooking the water. So, police obtained an exhumation order. Micah learned about it from his hospital bed. He had survived. Doctors could not explain how. Large portions of his body required grafting. He would carry the scars for the rest of his life.

               A detective sat beside him. “We need to ask you something.”

               Micah stared at the television. “What?”

               “We opened Sione's grave.”

               Micah closed his eyes. “What was inside?”

               The detective hesitated. “A body.”

               Micah turned. “Whose?”

               “We don't know yet.”

               “Then why are you here?”

               The detective placed a photograph on the blanket. Micah looked. The exhumed corpse had deteriorated badly. But the clothing remained recognizable. Funeral suit. White shirt. Blue tie. There was something else. Micah leaned closer. The corpse wore their father's watch. “No.”

               The detective studied him. “You told police 12 years ago that your brother lost that watch before he drowned.”

               Micah began shaking. “I thought he did.”

               “You just identified another body wearing the same watch.”

               Micah looked toward the bathroom. Something inside the mirror moved. Sione stood behind him. Wet. Smiling. Micah looked back at the photograph. The corpse in the grave had one hand resting over its chest. Five fingers. Then Micah remembered something. Something nobody else knew. Sione had lost the tip of his left index finger when he was nine. Bicycle chain. Their father joked that it made him easier to identify. Micah picked up the photograph. The corpse had all 10 fingertips. He stopped breathing.

               “What?” The detective leaned closer. “What is it?”

               Micah whispered:

               “That isn't Sione.”

               That night, Micah woke at 12:47am. The hospital room was dark. His bandages were soaked. Not blood. Seawater. A rhythmic sound came from the bathroom.

               THUD.

               Micah stared.

               THUD.

               THUD.

               He pressed the call button. Nothing. The bathroom door opened. Washer 14 stood where the toilet should have been. Its drum slowly turned. A black garbage bag tumbled inside. Micah began crying. “No more.” The machine stopped. Its door opened. The bag fell onto the floor. Micah could not move. The plastic untied itself. Inside was a hospital gown. His hospital gown. Across the chest, written in dark wet letters:

               NOT YOUR LOAD.

               Micah stared. Then he understood. Sione had been telling the truth. The laundromat did not create guilt. It washed what people carried. And the body buried in Sione's grave belonged to somebody else. Someone whose death had been hidden inside Micah's family's grief for 12 years. The bathroom light came on. Sione stood beside the machine. He looked toward the photograph on Micah's bedside table. Then back at his brother. “Ready for another load?”

               Micah looked at the body in the photograph. At 10 complete fingers. At their father's watch. At a stranger buried under his brother's name. And for the first time since the laundromat, Micah realized something worse than his own confession was waiting to be cleaned.

               He nodded.

               The washer door opened wider.