Story code: ST-001348
Part 1: VIP Suite 4
The glare of the eighteen-inch ring light reflects off a titanium crypto cold wallet and an empty orange prescription bottle resting on the mahogany nightstand of VIP Suite 4. I press my stiff-bristled brush into the grout line where the imported Italian marble floor meets the dark oak baseboards, keeping my head down and my breathing shallow. The harsh chemical scent of the industrial bleach in my yellow plastic bucket barely masks the lingering metallic odor of stale sweat and expensive cologne clinging to the oversized velvet sofa. I dip the brush into the foaming water, the repetitive scraping sound echoing in the cavernous, vaulted room of this luxury recovery center.
I am nothing but a uniform in this space, a nameless gray jumpsuit blending into the shadows while the clinic’s highest-paying patient paces in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view outside showcases rolling green hills and a pristine private lake, a stark contrast to the sterile, tense atmosphere inside the suite. Every piece of furniture in here costs more than I make in a year, from the hand-carved bed frame to the silk rugs I have been ordered to avoid with my cleaning supplies.
Chase stops his manic pacing and sniffs hard, dragging the back of his hand across his nostrils to smear away a faint dusting of white powder. He adjusts the silk collar of his designer pajamas, oblivious to the absurdity of getting high in a sanctuary that charges fifty thousand dollars a week for sobriety. He taps the screen of his latest smartphone, checking his reflection, completely undisturbed by the fact that I am kneeling less than three feet from his bare ankles. The power dynamic in this room hangs heavy in the chilled air, yet he remains completely unaware of who is actually scrubbing his floor.
I scrub harder, driving the bristles into a stubborn scuff mark. The friction generates a small amount of heat through my thick rubber gloves. My shoulder muscles burn from eight hours of this invisible, menial labor, but my hands remain perfectly steady. Every scrape of the brush against the marble is a physical anchor keeping me rooted in the present moment. I watch his shadow move across the floorboards. The silhouette distorts and stretches as he dances a little, listening to a heavy beat playing silently in his wireless earbuds. He taps his fingers against his thigh, completely lost in his own manufactured reality.
He moves to the mahogany nightstand and adjusts the angle of the ring light, illuminating his face with a harsh, blinding halo. He poses for a moment, making sure his jawline looks sharp for whatever virtual audience he plans to address later. He then leans against the solid wood, casually knocking the empty prescription bottle against the crypto wallet with a hollow clatter. The sound is sharp and jarring against the quiet hum of the climate control system.
Chase tosses the phone onto the unmade king-sized bed and lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. He finally glances down, noticing my presence as if a heavy piece of furniture has suddenly shifted into his path. His eyes are glassed over, the pupils dilated into large black voids that swallow the pale blue of his irises.
“You missed a spot right there,” Chase says, his voice thick with a nasal drawl.
He points a manicured finger at a perfectly clean section of tile near the toe of his silk slipper. I do not look up at his face. I slide my knees across the damp floor, repositioning my heavy plastic bucket, and attack the imaginary smudge with my brush. The soap bubbles turn gray as they spread across the smooth stone surface.
“Look at you going at it,” he mutters, letting out a sharp, breathy laugh. “You guys always work so hard. I bet you know exactly who I am, too. Probably saw my stream last night. Probably taking mental pictures right now to sell to the gossip blogs.”
I keep scrubbing in rhythmic, tight circles. The bristles flatten against the unforgiving stone. I let him talk. I let him build the narrative that makes him feel like a god in this room. He needs an audience, even one wearing rubber gloves and reeking of ammonia.
“It is exhausting being perceived all the time,” Chase continues, speaking more to the ring light than to me. “People look at the lifestyle, the cars, the compound, and they just want a piece. They want to tear it down because they could never build it themselves. You get it, man. Actually, no, you definitely do not get it. You scrub floors for a living.”
He sniffs again, louder this time, and kicks the side of my yellow bucket. A splash of dirty, gray water sloshes over the rim and pools around my left knee. The cold liquid seeps instantly through the thin cotton of my uniform pants. My hand freezes on the handle of the brush. I stare at the dirty puddle soaking into my skin. The silence in the room stretches out, thick and dangerous.
Chase steps closer, his silk slipper splashing directly into the puddle he just created. He crouches down, his face entering my peripheral vision. The scent of mint and pure alcohol radiates from his breath. He reaches into the pocket of his pajama pants and pulls out a crisp, folded hundred-dollar bill. He drops it directly into the dirty water next to my knee.
“Pick that up and dry off my shoe with your shirt,” Chase commands, his tone flat and expectant.
The glare of the eighteen-inch ring light reflects off a titanium crypto cold wallet and an empty orange prescription bottle resting on the mahogany nightstand of VIP Suite 4. I press my stiff-bristled brush into the grout line where the imported Italian marble floor meets the dark oak baseboards, keeping my head down and my breathing shallow. The harsh chemical scent of the industrial bleach in my yellow plastic bucket barely masks the lingering metallic odor of stale sweat and expensive cologne clinging to the oversized velvet sofa. I dip the brush into the foaming water, the repetitive scraping sound echoing in the cavernous, vaulted room of this luxury recovery center.
I am nothing but a uniform in this space, a nameless gray jumpsuit blending into the shadows while the clinic’s highest-paying patient paces in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view outside showcases rolling green hills and a pristine private lake, a stark contrast to the sterile, tense atmosphere inside the suite. Every piece of furniture in here costs more than I make in a year, from the hand-carved bed frame to the silk rugs I have been ordered to avoid with my cleaning supplies.
Chase stops his manic pacing and sniffs hard, dragging the back of his hand across his nostrils to smear away a faint dusting of white powder. He adjusts the silk collar of his designer pajamas, oblivious to the absurdity of getting high in a sanctuary that charges fifty thousand dollars a week for sobriety. He taps the screen of his latest smartphone, checking his reflection, completely undisturbed by the fact that I am kneeling less than three feet from his bare ankles. The power dynamic in this room hangs heavy in the chilled air, yet he remains completely unaware of who is actually scrubbing his floor.
I scrub harder, driving the bristles into a stubborn scuff mark. The friction generates a small amount of heat through my thick rubber gloves. My shoulder muscles burn from eight hours of this invisible, menial labor, but my hands remain perfectly steady. Every scrape of the brush against the marble is a physical anchor keeping me rooted in the present moment. I watch his shadow move across the floorboards. The silhouette distorts and stretches as he dances a little, listening to a heavy beat playing silently in his wireless earbuds. He taps his fingers against his thigh, completely lost in his own manufactured reality.
He moves to the mahogany nightstand and adjusts the angle of the ring light, illuminating his face with a harsh, blinding halo. He poses for a moment, making sure his jawline looks sharp for whatever virtual audience he plans to address later. He then leans against the solid wood, casually knocking the empty prescription bottle against the crypto wallet with a hollow clatter. The sound is sharp and jarring against the quiet hum of the climate control system.
Chase tosses the phone onto the unmade king-sized bed and lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. He finally glances down, noticing my presence as if a heavy piece of furniture has suddenly shifted into his path. His eyes are glassed over, the pupils dilated into large black voids that swallow the pale blue of his irises.
“You missed a spot right there,” Chase says, his voice thick with a nasal drawl.
He points a manicured finger at a perfectly clean section of tile near the toe of his silk slipper. I do not look up at his face. I slide my knees across the damp floor, repositioning my heavy plastic bucket, and attack the imaginary smudge with my brush. The soap bubbles turn gray as they spread across the smooth stone surface.
“Look at you going at it,” he mutters, letting out a sharp, breathy laugh. “You guys always work so hard. I bet you know exactly who I am, too. Probably saw my stream last night. Probably taking mental pictures right now to sell to the gossip blogs.”
I keep scrubbing in rhythmic, tight circles. The bristles flatten against the unforgiving stone. I let him talk. I let him build the narrative that makes him feel like a god in this room. He needs an audience, even one wearing rubber gloves and reeking of ammonia.
“It is exhausting being perceived all the time,” Chase continues, speaking more to the ring light than to me. “People look at the lifestyle, the cars, the compound, and they just want a piece. They want to tear it down because they could never build it themselves. You get it, man. Actually, no, you definitely do not get it. You scrub floors for a living.”
He sniffs again, louder this time, and kicks the side of my yellow bucket. A splash of dirty, gray water sloshes over the rim and pools around my left knee. The cold liquid seeps instantly through the thin cotton of my uniform pants. My hand freezes on the handle of the brush. I stare at the dirty puddle soaking into my skin. The silence in the room stretches out, thick and dangerous.
Chase steps closer, his silk slipper splashing directly into the puddle he just created. He crouches down, his face entering my peripheral vision. The scent of mint and pure alcohol radiates from his breath. He reaches into the pocket of his pajama pants and pulls out a crisp, folded hundred-dollar bill. He drops it directly into the dirty water next to my knee.
“Pick that up and dry off my shoe with your shirt,” Chase commands, his tone flat and expectant.