So it’s true, he thought. It’s really true. This floor is tainted; it’s a curse of the worst. Surrounded by a black circle of filth on the floor, he dipped the mop in the bucket and strained to squeeze the water out. The mop head was slapped hard on the surface, and pushed and pulled across the floor boards. As the soapy water was spread along the way, the ugly spot on the floor grew. A deep black mark expanded to every which way the mop trailed. And he was perplexed.
The sinister mark was a mystery. Soap is meant to clean things, but this was an obscure situation. He panicked at the thought. He scrubbed the spot harder and harder and harder and faster. The ugly smear became larger and deeper, and defied the laws of science. This mark was a devil and a monster. He dunked the mop in the bucket again, this time with fury.
More effort, he thought. He whacked the mop on the floor once again. His brow furrowed. His back began to sweat as he pushed deep into the wood on the floor. Yet the spot became immense! The sound of breath was heavy. Surely this wasn’t a botch that was irreversible. It’s just a spot, just a spot. He began to grunt with every press. The stick handle moved too fast. Backforthbackforthbackforth.
The disorientation was too much! The entire floor was blacker than black in every corner and every crease. His breath was no longer short from strain, but from distress. The black grew from the place to his shoes, his shoes to his legs. He was covered to the waist in this black grim. He attempted to flee, when his foot caught the very edge of the bucket. Consequently, he crashed to the floor. The bucket spilled, and water rushed all around his knees. He caught himself on his hands, the black spread up his forearms. No, no, NO! He curled himself up as small as he could, placing his palms over his eyeballs. The black circled his sockets and broadened down his cheeks. He let out a whimper of anguish. All was lost.
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