Ms. Nealson's Mess

Written for fun, but given the mix of horror and comedy genres has proven a challenge to find a willing publisher.
-----------------------------

Ms. Nealson’s Mess

“I’m going to be late,” I mutter and continue to clean Ms. Nealson’s mess.
Maybe I shouldn’t have killed her. Yes, I understand we shouldn’t kill anyone, but she hardly left me a choice. Ms. Nealson was prying too deeply and too closely. Perhaps I shouldn’t feel threatened by the elderly, but I have no interest in underestimating anyone, especially that old hag.
I suppose that's exactly the line of reasoning that led to me scrubbing her gray matter off my basement steps. That or the unventilated area mixed with the burning fumes of bleach has heightened my sense of empathy. Whatever the case, this unplanned course of action will undoubtedly delay my arrival at my divorce court hearing.
I don’t have to be there, but I promised Amber I’d show my support through this process. I am nothing if not supportive of my soon-to-be ex-wife. And while I couldn’t be the husband she needed me to be, I still have enough respect to be the friend she needs.
My phone rings, as my hands are plunged in six inches of bleached and bloody water. I toss the faded yellow rubber gloves to the side and pull out my phone. Amber’s photo lights up my screen, and I answer.
“Are you on your way yet?” Amber asks. Her voice is still muffled, and her microphone is still damaged. It never was the same since she accidentally dropped in a mixture of carefully chosen, blended fruits. She used to make us smoothies every morning. This house hasn’t heard the hum of a blender for a very long time. That might come to change, with a body that needs to be disposed of.
“I’m headed out now,” I lie, and I can’t ignore the guilt that racks me. “I just needed to clean up a mess, Ms. Neal— I made.”
“A mess? Is everything alright?” She questions in a voice so filled with genuine concern that it only manages to hurt me again.
Ms. Nealson’s split head and contorted limbs could only express a fraction of the pain I feel when lying to Amber.
“Everything is quite alright,” I explain and tuck my phone between my cheek and shoulder. I take Ms. Nealson’s wrists in my hands and drag her away from the final steps of the basement stairs. “Nothing I can’t deal with later. I’ll be there in 20.”
The light overhead flickers, and I realize I’ve forgotten to change it again. With as often as I use the basement, you’d think I would take better care of it. Then again, the same could be said about both of my previous marriages.
“Might want to make it 10,” she says.
I laugh in an attempt to cover the sound of Ms. Nealson’s broken body being dragged across my basement floor. “You can’t tell me the courthouse is running early.”
Amber pauses, and I wonder if she knows what I’m doing. I drop the body, and Nealson’s head lands with an unsavory splat. Specks of blood land on my favorite pair of slippers, and I curse.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Amber pushes again.
I stumble over my words and Ms. Nealson's arm. I fall to the ground, knocking over the bloodied bucket, and land hard on one knee and an elbow. Fortunately, my phone is still grasped tightly in my hand. Unfortunately, I’m certain the sound of the old metal bucket rolling across the concrete floor comes through. The last of its liquids sloshes against the confines until it finally comes to a stop.
I stare at the crimson predicament that creeps its way toward me. Its swirling red flow reminds me of Amber’s hair. The way it would curl in upon itself underwater.
“Amber,” I say in as normal a tone as I can muster. “I’m gonna need to call you back, okay? Love you.”
“Dorian, wait, what—”
I hit my head with my phone, wondering how I could be so stupid. I shouldn’t have said I loved her. I thought I was past that. Old habits like that are the toughest to get rid of. They’re like the poor crumpled excuse of an old nosy neighbor.
“Oh, Ms. Nealson,” I say to her corpse. “You’ve really gone about mucking up my day, haven’t you?”
After a brief scolding, I consider the best way to keep her fresh till I get back. Lucky for me, I’m well acquainted with the conditions in which a body best decomposes. Or in this case, the best way to keep a body from decomposing. With that in mind, I turn to the deep freezer behind us.
The crack and hiss of the suction breaking as I raise the freezer door always steadies my mind. The rush of cold air reminds me of the winter when I met Amber. How frigid that year was. I fell for her instantly, and quite literally. I’ve never been able to keep my balance on the ice-slicked sidewalks. She helped pick me up when I fell. She always did.
The freezer, cold and humid, sits empty with a few exceptions of dead raccoons that I found off the side of the road. It’s about time these poor bastards saw some love and were placed on a shelf. Taxidermy has always been a clever way to soothe the nerves and hide the stench of decay. And the extra cash didn’t hurt.
I placed the Tupperware containing the raccoon contents on the right side of the freezer and turned around.
“Alright, Dorian, you’ve got this,” I say in preparation. “Lift with your legs, not with your back.”
It’s at this moment that I am reminded just how heavy the human body is. Ms. Nealson may be a tiny old woman, lighter now with her lack of blood and brain, but the dead weight of a human body was always more of a challenge than it looked. Even the body of an elder who should have been wiser.
What blood she has left seeps into the front of my shirt. Within a few seconds, it’s stained a deep crimson. A red that’s going to take ages to wash out. It seems only fitting when her body tumbles into the freezer without care or elegance.
“Serves you right,” I spit, and slam the freezer door shut.
I dry my hands with a nearby rag and check the time. I gasp and ascend the stairs as quickly as I can manage and nearly slip on Ms. Nealson’s blood in the process. The footsteps I leave behind me will just have to wait to be cleaned.
As I secure the final buttons of my shirt, I lower the blinds and close the curtains of my house to avoid any further accidents for the day. I triple-check the locks, and once certain my future dealings are secure, I make my way to the courthouse as originally planned.
Despite the typical inconveniences like bumper-to-bumper traffic, drivers who can’t seem to choose a lane, and red lights that seem personally timed to test my patience, I manage to make it to the courthouse without incident. That begins the next challenge, keeping the scent of bleach and death from being noticed. I should have taken some time to shower, perhaps.
I draw nearer to the official building, and my heart surges at the thought of seeing Amber once again. All my fears wash away.
I enter the courthouse and approach the officers who guard this sanctuary of justice. Their faces twist, brows furrow, and I am left with a sense of growing unease as I approach. One holds up a hand to my advancement.
“Is there a problem?” I ask them.
They peer at one another and share a nod. One whispers something inaudible into their walkie-talkie as the other stares me down. Their gaze is filled with such scrutiny, I can only assume he knows my sins better than I do.
I glance to the side, where the other officer begins to walk off, and it’s there I catch a glimpse of myself in the tall mirror. Dread replaces the blood in my veins. I don’t know whether to run or face my newfound fate head-on.
Blood. Ms. Nealson’s dried blood covers the right side of my face and neck. Only Amber could cause me to be so foolish. Only Amber could cause me to be in such a rush. My hand trembles at how this mishap will embarrass her; how my folly will shame her.
A clock chimes the hour's arrival, and it echoes throughout the lobby. At least I managed to make it on time.