One Apple A Day #139
He was folding the fitted sheet when he saw it.
He didn’t actually saw it, not at the beginning at least. It was more like a perception that something was different in that familiar space. He has been coming to the laundry every Friday for six months. Always at the same time. At 10 pm on Friday no one like to do the laundry. No one but him. And this was exactly what he was looking for. Solitude. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people, there was a time where his life was all about people. The problem was that people didn’t like him. Not after the incident.
That laundry was perfect. Small, clean and fully automatic. During the day the washing machines were always running, but on Friday night he was always on his own. He spent so much time sitting there, waiting for his stuff to be ready, that he knew every spot of that place. He would be able to describe even the position and size of the stains on the walls.
He felt the change. He didn’t know why he didn’t perceive it while he was waiting for the washing machine to finish. He had to close his eyes and rebuild the picture of the place in his mind before being able to spot it. And there it was. Besides the last machine on the right of the back wall, the number four. He always used the number two, partially because it worked well but mainly because of the layout of the place. Sitting in the far left corner, with his back covered by a pillar, he was able to control his stuff while keeping an eye on the entrance, all without making him visible from outside.
In the beginning, it just looked like a new stain. Someone had spilt something on the floor. But when he moved closer he recognised it immediately. It was blood. It was fresh. And the finger that bled it was still there, between the washer and the side wall.