Trigger Warning / Spoilers : \abuse | self-harm | rape hinted \
Gilbert always expected his house to be neat and tidy, with everything in the right place but damn if he considered himself the one responsible to keep it that way. He was much too busy, he said, putting going out and working hard to put food on the table, to keep the roof over their heads apparently struggling with every workday and yet he still managed to indulge in something he liked, such as workout machine that he had used exactly once before going back to his dumbbells.
Gilbert had told Matthew that if he even thought about touching the machine, he himself was a dumbbell and was asking to have one thrown at his head. Matthew knew that Gilbert had not only the strength to physically do so but also the tenacity to actually go through with it. The only time his fingers grazed over the cushioned seat was now, as he ran dry cloth along its surface to get rid of the dust.
Gilbert deserved those kind of things. He worked hard, he played hard. Matthew on the other hand, did nothing. Nothing but sit in his room waiting for Gilbert to come home. Not that there was anything wrong with staying in the house, but if Gilbert was out busting his chops the least Matthew could do was spend his time keeping the house clean instead of wasting his time writing little stories.
Gilbert never understood the purpose of that. Yeah, its cool to have a hobby, he had said, opening his journal and scribbling a few doodles in it for the 15th time that day. But if you're going to spend all your time doing something and not even earn any money, whats the damn point. Be happy, yeah, but be damn useful. He snapped his journal shut in Matthews face poignantly, smirking before punching him lightly on the shoulder.
Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert. Gilbert.
Matthew wondered for a moment, how odd their relationship felt now. How queer, stilted and slightly uncomfortable it was to think about himself. Sure, selfish was something he was being. Logically, something was not wrong. So weird. So dumb. So, well useless to still, in the words of Gilbert, be so self absorbed when a relationship was supposed to be effort compiled by a team.
Gilbert had a point. It made sense to not be selfish and to indeed help out around the house. Matthew pulled at the rag between his hands. Why was it that, when he thought of himself first his brain was a jumbled catastrophe but when Gilbert was first everything was neat, concise, systematic and purposeful. First, Second, Third. Matthew, despite his name, hated math and it seemed even now he couldn't grasp his mind around the concept of inequalities in both mathematics and sociopaths.
He brought his rag over to the sink, turning on the water, a thin dribble to rinse off the dirt. Every time Gilbert came home he would complain of the house smelling awful despite the fact that Matthew seemed to think that it smelled perfectly fine. Of course Matthew wouldn't notice such a thing since, according to Gilbert, he was perfectly fine smelling like moose shit half the time. A prompt wrist grab and shove into the tub and before Matthew even knew it Gilbert was giggling and scrubbing him all over with a poofy loofah, hard and rough to make sure he ex-foliated the build up of filth. Since Matthew was such a dirty boy.
The sudden chill on Matthew's hand made him return his focus to rinsing the rag, trying to ignore the frozen sensation that traveled down his spine. It wasn't working. He turned the faucet for the hot water as much as he could and the water gushed out, splattering on the metal of the sink and bouncing up, wetting Matthew's shirt. It wasn't hot enough and Matthew didn't want to wait for it to heat up.
Another thought occurred to him. What was he thinking?! Cleaning with that rag after only a rinse. It needed to be sanitized, all the germs disintegrated. He grabbed a cup and let it fill with water, turning off the faucet and stuffing the rag into the cup. Throwing open the microwave door he shoved the cup inside and pressed the button. A low hum was made as it turned on the dish, the numbers counting down.
Matthew could hear Gilbert's voice in his head the first time he had simply did some light cleaning. How idiotic he was to spread germs around the house. If Gilbert got sick, how were they going to get money for food, how were they going to live? Matthew stared at the microwave and thought about how it wouldn't work when the door was open. He considered the possibility of cutting a hole at the bottom and putting his head through the hole. It was so dark inside those microwaves, until you plugged them in and punched the numbers. Then it would light up and Matthew would be able to finally see.
His first thought was how much a bother it would be to clean up the mess.
Ding.
Rushing forward he grabbed the cup turned it over in the sink. The rag was nice and steamy, surely everything bad was dead now. Grabbing a jug of pine smelling cleaner, he dumped a heap over the rag so that the stench of clean lingered in the air and tore at his eyes, grabbing at his lungs. On went the water again for a brief moment and Matthew hurriedly ran the rag over the kitchen counter, back and forth back and forth. Down onto the bottom cupboards. Circular motions, scrub scrub scrub the dirt.
The rag was far too wet and droplets of the water/cleaner mixture splattered everywhere, on the floor, in Matthews hair and there was still so much. Not clean enough it didn't look clean enough. He went back to the sink and poured soap on the rag, wetting it again.
He was lazy. Gilbert said. Always cutting corners and trying to just do whatever was fastest. Matthew reached his rag up to try to scrub at the upper cabinets, his shoulder aching and the tips of his toes struggling to support his weight. His hands were starting to feel warm and hot from how concentrated the cleaner was, but that was good. Clean Clean. Clean house.
Matthew moved in a frenzy, doing both sides of the doors, practically punching the cloth and carving the first layer of wood away as he scrubbed. His heart was beating faster. Why had he waited so long. Why was he such a fool. Why did the nightmares assault him that made him refuse to go to bed at night and wake up this late.
Gilbert could come home and walk into the doorway. Chastise Matthew for only starting when he was coming home. Berate him for being so lazy. Shove the bristle end of a broomstick in his mouth so he could taste the shameful taste of disappointment that he had instilled in Gilbert. What a worthless man he was. Worthless. Dirty, Useless. Filthy.
Matthew collapsed.
His arm ached from scrubbing so hard, his heart pounding so hard in his chest, the fumes of the disinfectant making him feel dizzy and he had taken a step onto the slippery floor and slipped forward, knocking face first into the kitchen counter in the process.
He laid there on the floor, too tired and in agony to even move. Everything was so blurry and Matthew could see his glasses just before him, broken neatly in two across the bridge. There were odd red specks across the frames, as though little rose petals had dotted their surface in between Matthew's fall. Then he realized.
It was his blood.
The fall had had him smash right into the edge of the counter and Matthew had no doubt that he probably had a big gash right in between the eyebrows. Gilbert would say he was so clumsy, so stupid to do fall like that, something that could have been prevented if he kept the house clean on a daily basis in the first place.
Matthew thought; "Fuck Gilbert."
Matthew was lying in a puddle of disinfectant. The pungent smell making it feel as though he had crash landed in a pine forest after a rainfall. It didn't matter. Matthew was already clean. He could take a shower on his own, go into the bathroom and take care of himself without having someone intently watch him to "make sure he got into the crevices" He was spotless.
Matthew found himself trying to write a poem in his head, something to express his feelings about his situation at the moment as the blood started to stream down one side of his nose and take a path down towards his lips. He always found himself struck the hardest by the muses when it was impossible to create at the moment.
Matthew shook his head, the blood dripping off his skin and landing on the floor. His hands were red, skin peeling from the overly concentrated solution, fingertips wrinkled from having so much contact with the water. It hurt to move them, but at the same time, it hurt not to move them. He wanted so much to close his hands around something and move them over and over again.
He reached out, and brought himself up with great difficulty to stand, staring blearily at the sink and feeling around until he closed his hand around something that felt so nice, with bumps conformed for his fingers. Classic comfort and a smooth weight as he pulled the knife from the rack. The sound of a door being slammed open echoed through the house, followed by Gilbert's announcement of arrival. Matthew turned around, panting softly.
This was going to be such a pain to clean up.