The Woes of the Help

Susan slowly pulls the mop out of its bucket; she rings it out carefully, only to be assaulted with the sound of dirty water drip drip dripping onto the white linoleum floor. She bites her lip and rubs her thumb against the ribbed surface of the mop handle over and over and over until the skin is worn down to the lowest, reddest layer.

She takes a deep breath. The daily routine will continue, and she will come out alive.

She walks backwards as she mops, the wet spots closing in on her and rapidly leaving her with no space to move. She tries to take one more step back but is greeted with a dull thud as her foot taps a little too forcefully into the wall.

Trapped. She is trapped. And just like that, the frustration pops.

“Goddamn it!” she says out loud, sinking to the floor and pressing her knees up to her chest, her small feet just barely touching the edge of her little island.

She suddenly feels like crying, but she doesn’t know why.

“Oh, ******** me.” She buries her face in her hands, wondering if she has made a mistake, if her life has only been made of mistakes.

“Hey, are you okay?”

She looks up to see the owner of the house’s son, a boy of barely sixteen, standing on the line of carpet where the living room turns into the kitchen. He smiles at her softly; his teeth are slightly crooked, but it’s a nice smile, nonetheless.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” She stands up quickly, feeling the heat rush into her face. She wishes she still wore her hair down, like she had in high school, but it’s tied too tightly against her scalp; she has nothing to hide behind anymore.

“… Is the floor wet?” he says finally.

“Yes?” It comes out like a question, and she looks down, embarrassed by her timidity.

“Wait a minute.” He walks away and comes back with an armful of towels. Slowly, carefully, he lays them down in a line coming straight at her, the last one just reaching her toes.

“I’ve laid out the red carpet for you my lady,” he smiles, holding out his hand to her. She doesn’t mean to, but she grabs it, driven by an outside force. An outside force that likes the attention.


“Thanks,” a voice smoother than her own replies, her lips spreading into a smile against her will. His eyes scan her, all the way up and down, like he has never really seen her before.


“Hey, no problem. How can I walk away from a woman in trouble?” He laughs, winking at her.

“A woman in trouble...” she replies softly, letting go of his hand and taking a step backward.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, looking confused, “You always look so... sad, whenever I see you. I just thought that maybe I could, um, help you out… for once. ”


She walks out of there as fast as she possibly can while maintaining some semblance of composure, but the hand carrying her bucket of supplies shakes and her chest constricts, and it takes every last bit of will power to climb into her car and drive home.

It's All About Who You Know

She finally stumbles through the door, feeling defeated. She has never been good with talking to people, she’s never been good at doing anything really, and it’s always been hard for her to keep away the panic that always seemed to be building in her lungs.

Irrational fear. Isn’t that what her old psychiatrist used to tell her? She suddenly wishes that she could talk to him again.

She tries to conjure up his face, but it’s blurry. She hasn’t been to a psychiatrist since she was fourteen. The face she ends up with is Sigmund Freud. She supposes it’s better than nothing.

“Why do you feel this way, Susan?” Freud asks, taking a long drag from his pipe.

“I don’t know.”

“Really? You honestly don’t know?”

“I really don’t.”

“Fine.” He rubs his imaginary fingers against his imaginary temples, “Then tell me, what exactly are you feeling? You can tell me that can’t you?”

She pauses, trying to comprehend her twisted up emotions, but the words leave her mouth before the thought was even finished, “Regret, shame, and fear. There’s always fear.”

“And why is that?”

She can’t take it anymore; she turns away and runs to the bathroom, wrenching open the medicine cabinet to find those pills she bought.

She swallows two without water, feeling the hard corners rub dryly against her throat all the way down. She puts the bottle away and then rethinks it, pulling it back out and taking two more.

“Pathetic.” Freud says from behind her. She closes her eyes.

She had been given the chance to get married once, but her nerves hadn’t let her. She had been too afraid of the strain of married life, the strain of children, the strain of a real job and a real life.

“How does it feel Suzy? Your strain-less life?” Freud asks, his voice a whisper against her ear.

“Pathetic.”


She wakes up not knowing what time it is. Her cheek is pressed up against the cold tile floor, her hair is plastered with vomit, and her stomach feels like it has been corroded away. She sits up slowly, her bones creaking; she grabs the edge of the sink, attempting to pull herself up, but fails. Eventually she gives up and just sits, one hand on the sink, the other hanging limply at her side.

She cries then, and she doesn’t stop until she hears the alarm in her room that says that it’s time for her to go to work. When she does hear it, she forces herself up, washes her hair in the sink, and stumbles her way into the bedroom to change into her uniform for the day.

And So It Ends

After work is over Susan stops by the liquor store to pick up a couple of groceries. She used to go to the grocery store, but it had been too taxing on her nerves, to big, too many people. The liquor store was safer.

But her neurosis's are worse lately.

Even the liquor store, which she must visit at least 15 times a month, is giving her hives. The fluorescent lights beat against her brow and she can feel cold sweat running down the back of her neck. Every shelf is a maze, every person is one person too many and she feels cramped, trapped. She closes her eyes to keep the panic from reaching her throat. Maybe it's best if she just leaves; she can deal with this later, after a pill or two.

But every time she tries to take a step towards the door she can feel Freud's hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from it. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. She's not allowed to leave until he says so.

The panic grows big and fat in her throat like a tumor.

“Susan?”

The panic shrinks slightly at the sound of the familiar voice and she turns around. It’s the boy’s mother, Marjorie J.

“Ah, hello Mrs. J.” she replies weakly, the hand holding the basket shaking.

“I’m glad I ran into you. I was wondering if you would mind coming over today at about eleven O’clock or so? We’re throwing a party and it’s going to be a huge mess, so I’d really appreciate it. I’ll pay you double.”

“I don’t-”

“Do it Susan,” Freud interrupts, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shivers at his touch and finds herself nodding, moving her mouth to say words in the affirmative.

Mrs. J. doesn’t seem to see the turmoil.

“Wonderful! I’ll see you then.” She walks off, the click click click of her heels hammering into her skull like the nails on a coffin.

“Why do I have to go? Can’t I just-“

“No. You can never ‘just’ do anything. If you don’t keep moving, you’ll die. Besides, the party will probably be over by then anyway, you can handle cleaning can’t you?” His voice is firm, and she does not argue.


When she arrives at eleven o’clock the party is clearly not over.

She can hear the laughter and the music from the other side of the door, and as she takes the first step up to the porch, her entire body is covered with goose bumps.

“What are you so afraid of?” Freud asks, his eyes admonishing her for her unwanted and melodramatic fears. She looks down at her black suede shoes; she has chosen them on purpose, so that if she ever gets the desire to look at them she won't have to stare at her own reflection. She silently applauds her foresight, the last thing she needs right now is to stare herself in the face.

“I don’t know, please, just let me go home.” She can feel his stare boring into her back and her eyes begin to blur with tears. What does he want? She doesn't understand why she feels the way that she does, so how could she possibly tell him? All she knows is that she wants to run away.

“Oh please, it’s just a party. Don’t you like parties?” It’s a different voice this time, a woman’s voice. Susan turns to the left and sees a tall, beautiful woman, dressed in a black cocktail dress. The woman looks like a more glamorous version of herself.

“Please, let me leave,” she begs, turning back and forth between them, hoping one will give her sympathy. Freud and the woman laugh.

“It’s a lovely party, why don’t you live a little? You don’t have to clean until it’s over, so why don’t you…” Susan feels a push on her back forcing her closer to the door, and she watches as a her hand, uncontrolled by her, turns the knob, “… have some fun?”

From the moment that she opens the door there is nothing. She sees only darkness and is tortured by her own voice, echoing from a far away place; her own voice, saying things she would never say, laughing in a way she would never laugh.

"Oh, you're such a cutie pie," she hears her voice say, laughing in that odd way.

"Um, thanks Susan. You know, you seem really different today, are you okay?" she instantly recognizes the soft male voice as Marjorie's son's.

She opens her mouth to yell, to try to get her voice to reach out of the darkness, but there is no sound. 'Please!' she silently begs, 'Let me out! This isn't me!'

There is no answer and she gives up, sitting the the darkness, waiting to be released. She feels no hope, but at the same time she can't bring herself to feel sadness either, who is she anyway? Maybe it's better if she could just go away for a while.

'Okay Susan, you want out? I'll let you out. Go see how much everyone has.....missed you," the woman in black laughs her strange laugh as she says it, Susan tries not to think about what she means.

When she opens her eyes the party is over and Marjorie is standing in front of her, her mouth curved into a pleased smile. Her son is standing next to her, he looks less pleased.

“I had no idea you had it in you, Susan. I’m glad you showed up before the party ended. You deserve to have a good time once in a while, you’ve been working for me for seventeen years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much.”

"Yes," she says slowly, feeling odd. Her senses are coming back slower than they should and it takes her several seconds to realize that there is a hand on her shoulder, rubbing its way up and down her neck and along her collarbone.

She turns to look at the source of the hand, startled to find a strange man standing there, smiling at her.

He leans over to press his lips up against her ear. “Would you like to come back to my place?”

She looks away from him, wide-eyed, her eyes darting back and forth between Marjorie and her son. Marjorie sees nothing wrong, but the boy seems to sense her uneasiness and take a step towards her. But he moves no closer than one step, his face betraying the uneasiness he feels in 'helping' a thirty-five year old woman get away from people who are being nice to her.

She's not sure what she should do, so she stands frozen, unable to move.

"Are you alright, dear?" Marjorie says, laughing uneasily. The man with the hand on her shoulder waves away the question with a flick of his wrist.

“Oh, she’s fine, she’s probably just had a little too much to drink. I'd better take her home.”

"No, I-" she stops, feeling a hand over her mouth.

"Shhh!" the woman in black whispers in her ear, "Do you want to ruin everything? People like you this way, people like you better when I'm you. Why do you always have to be weird? This is why nobody likes you."

Susan stops, considering her words, wondering why they don't hurt her as she's sure they are meant to. Oh. She suddenly realizes. It's because it's true.

Nobody has ever liked the 'real' Susan. The 'real' Susan is the girl who shuffled between classes, never looking anyone in the eye; the 'real' Susan is the girl who never had dreams or hopes, who ran away when people asked her a question, who cried when her pencil broke and never went to college because she didn't want to move. Nobody likes that Susan.

She looks over at the boy; he's nervous, eying her up and down, not quite sure what to do. He likes her.

"What's one teenage boy?" the woman in black sneers, "What does he matter, when everyone else hates you. You're not strong enough, Susan. It would be better if you just went away. It's really better this way."

The truth of these words seems undeniable, and Susan no longer feels like fighting. So she closes her eyes and lets go. She can feel all those despairing, strange, unmanageable feelings and pain within her wilting. Oh, she thinks for the last time, it is better this way. It really is.

“Oh, I'm sorry I seem so off, I'm just a little tipsy. I had a wonderful time,” the woman in black says with Susan’s old lips.

The boy stares and stares, but Susan isn't there anymore. The light in those brown eyes isn't plain enough, isn't sad enough to be Susan. He can't look anymore, so he turns away, confused and afraid.

But no one else notices. The world is full of smiles.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 31.03.2012

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