My Proza

The bucket screams with a scraping sound, gliding over the floor tiles. When she squeezes the sponge, I hear water seeping back into the bucket. The sound of stubborn dirt that does not want to let go of its soil. It does not matter how long she will wipe and how many stains disappear. She will never get rid of this dirt.

Here I am at the top of the stairs, waiting for the redeeming answer that I can come down again, I am waiting.

But the longer I stand there, the more I realize that this house is no longer the place where I grew up. I try to absorb a fraction of the old smell, but I do not recognize it anymore. Another smell comes to me through the stairs, as steam rises and it fills the room. What is this? I inhale the smell through my mouth, on my tongue I taste metal.

The smell fills the house up to the ceiling. Tears jump out of my eyes, I try to walk away from that smell, but it's in every room. The memory of this smell follows its path to me. Blood it is. It is everywhere, as a layer it covers my skin. The odor spreads throughout the house.

What I thought was dirt is his blood. His soul, on which I stood as if it were filth. Dirt that was to be brushed away. And with every wipe and new stream of water, his soul fills the house. The realization is unbearable and the smell compresses my pores. I run to the bedroom, the window. I want to flee, away from the smell, away from reality. But I am not able to flee that terrible smell anymore, no matter where I go.