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Friday, 20 December 2013

Taster: Schrodinger's Cat by Eileen Schuh



A taster from Schrodinger's Cat by Eileen Schuh

Chorie slipped on her rubber gloves, grabbed the toilet brush, and sighed. She’d read somewhere that despite today’s technology, she did more chores than the privileged of the middle ages. In other words...
She opened the toilet seat, held her breath, and squirted the blue cleaner around the rim...queens and princesses in the ancient world didn’t scrub their own chamber pots...or their own floors. Hell, they didn’t even suckle their own babies; wet nurses did.
She turned her head and inhaled deeply before leaning over the bowl to scrub. She thought of cold, dark, stone castles lit only by candles, smelling of rancid smoke…and mould in damp corners…and un-bathed bodies. She thought of beheadings and public hangings. Of witches and knights and dragons…of untreated infections…of mothers dying during childbirth….
Of children dying….
She flushed the toilet and watched the water swirl down the drain. There would still be a brown stain at the bottom once the blue left. Probably some streaks on the side. There always were. A taunt. Because in some lab somewhere, a man who’d never cleaned a toilet in his life, decided the cleaner should be a thick blue. So thick and blue those who did clean toilets, couldn’t see where they needed to scrub. She caught the sound of a moan over the whir of the water and stepped to the open door to listen.
Children dying.…
Another listless whimper wafted over the back of the sofa, a soft cry of pain rising from behind a veil of sleep.
She flipped the lid closed without checking for spots and ripped off her gloves. She hadn’t planned for her life to turn out this way. She hadn’t wanted children, but Gus had. So, she’d conceded—on the condition she wasn’t going to be a stay-at-home mom. She’d keep her career. Hire a nanny. Maybe a housekeeper. That’s what the deal had been.
She left the aseptic aromas and cool smooth lino of the bathroom and made her way to the great room. Her stockinged feet whispered against the plush burgundy carpet. The fridge kicked in with a low hum. The neighbour’s dog barked.
She peeped over the back of the black leather sofa and caught the strange metallic scent of approaching death.

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