The Life Altering Tale of Why I Can't do the Dishes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
I can't do the dishes anymore, there's a very good reason to it as well, and if I'm lucky they'll be done before the story ends. So then I'll be able to start again next time and use this as the best excuse.

Submitted: December 04, 2016

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Submitted: December 04, 2016

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It all started back when I was seven years old, if only then I had known what dangers the world had within. I would have steered clear of such events happening to me. I can still see it all vividly, like it was recent. It hurts to think about, I think it’s possible that I still haven’t completely recovered, and equally as possible that bringing it all back up could do more harm than good. Regardless, I need to get it all out. I need to share my story, my turmoil, my life lived that definitely should have been somewhat later than seven years of age.

 

My mother asked me one question, a demand really, a demand that seemed simple. Oh, how naive I was. I was blind to think that anything my mother got me to do would be possible without leaving me scarred for life. Twenty years have passed since this horrific event, yet I can’t seem to shake it. On far too many occasions I’ve woken up in a cold sweat with the thought of what happened. She asked me to go into the kitchen and...and...wash the dishes. Dishes that not only did I hardly help to produce, but they were not rinsed, so there was thick sauces, stains, and grease all stuck to the plates, pots, and various cutlery. I knew then and there that if I was going to stoop to the level of common house slave that I was going to do it with style.

 

I made my way from the kitchen to my bedroom, although the road there was treacherous enough, with my mother sitting on the living room couch, eyes glued to her phone. So I just waltzed passed her oddly enough. In my room, I searched long and hard and about five minutes to find an apron that had been passed on in my family for years. It’s not tradition, we just don’t know who’s it is so it circles the laundry baskets a few times a year. I grabbed the apron and right as I was ready to don the words ‘Kiss the Cook’, I was met at the door of my room with a thought. “I could really go for a bit of dessert before I do the dishes.” I thought to myself.
And with a flourish, I was through the living room and back in the kitchen. Wherein both of my objectives lie. I turned on the tap to get the sink filling up and with it under way I turned to the
fridgerator, to find snacks, I wouldn't eat all of them, just enough to get away with them being re-fridgerated. But before I can find something to steal I’m met with my mother giving me the scariest glare I’ve ever seen. So I returned to the sink that was filling fast. I remember the water being hot to the touch, it burned and scalded me. To this day I can’t recall a time when my hand hurt as much as then. But soon after - And with a healthy amount of cold water to balance the temperature - my hand was able to get into the sink. I sloshed around some washing detergent and if only I was forward thinking because after I grabbed the first disgusting plate my eye was met with a plethora of others, each more unsettling than the last. So I stood there for a second, just taking it in, with a plate in one hand, and the other rushing around the bottom of the sink desperately trying to find the sponge. I felt a sharp pain on my knuckle at this point but I found the sponge, it was only by the fourth plate though that I realised I should have rinsed these first. The water was awful, orange, and thick, not to mention the smell, I still can’t eat spaghetti bolognese the same way. But the second sink was full of soaking cutlery. I was proven imbecilic by my own genius.

 

I washed away the suds from the plate before I was to change the water, and as I did the water pulled closer to a reddish hue than its orange of before. I pulled my hand out and wiped a clump of bubbles from my hand and was left to see the gush of watery blood out of my knuckle. I screamed with pain as the realisation was hitting me like a bus to Ted. My mother rushed in and once she learned the situation, she let out an audible breath and tended to my cut. “Is it throbbing?”  She asked sternly.
“No.” I replied.
She asked me the problem, if it wasn’t throbbing then how could it hurt? “No it
hurts.
” I add. “It’s just not throbbing, it’s pretty consistent and it really hurts.”

“Do the dishes.” And she was off.
I only wish that she’d been more caring for my wounds, because as I looked over to the cleaned dishes to discover there were light red stains across some of them, and as we weren’t having vampires over for dinner the next night I had to redo the lot. So my tireless efforts were beginning again, it was only after what seemed like hours I found the culprit of my turmoil. Someone had put the freshly sharpened knife that effortlessly sliced tomatoes directly into the opaque water. Someone had to pay but that was a quest for another day as I had half of the dishes to go.

 

With each one I had become closer to my well deserved sit down. But as I was nearing the end I was hit with the realisation that no one had dried a single one, what was I to do? Dry them myself? The very idea was flabbergasting, so I skillfully stacked, organised, and played a hell of a game of real-life Tetris. It was more precarious than the Tower of Pisa but I was done. The sink was clean, the cutlery was...No! I forgot about the soaking cutlery, but thanks to the soak, I simply ran them under cold water and they were clean! So I was off.

 

I retired to my bedroom to assess the damage to my knuckle, as I was measuring the diameter of the linear slice I was met with an angry yell. “Ted was meant to dry the dishes I only had to wash them!” The yell had my throat aflutter, so the soda was in my system in moments.
But alas, I was yelled at some more, and through a
flaw in my biological makeup I was left voiceless before she was. Defeated, I slinked back to the kitchen to see dishes that were cleaner than the store had to offer, they had never been done so well. I reluctantly took the tea towel from my mother and took the top plate, which was atop a bowl above a colander, in a larger bowl, above more plates. Hindsight being 20/20 I could see the precariousness of the stack in question. Which would have been a lovely sight to see considering before I could think about it the entire stack fell to the floor, my rush to save them didn’t help though. I still had a bowl in my hand when I went to save the metal colander, which knocked over the next few stacks, each larger, and each scarier to tackle head-on. You see I’m not what the scientists would call ‘smart’. Because my first reaction was to dry off the last surviving plate, but as the pressure was put  on my foot to get there I fell, on top of the cutlery, pots, and pieces of shattered porcelain, which resembles my psyche after such an ordeal. As I lay there with cuts all up my side, a broken foot, and a knife sticking out of the other, I knew that in my heart, there would never be a time when I would feel such horror, nor a dish I would ever have to clean again.

 

But here we are, in the kitchen. And you’re trying to make me clean this knife that I used to butter my toast. Not gonna happen. I could die. I still have metal shavings in between my talus and cuboid bones. So I’ll leave this with you, and I’m gonna go eat my cold toast in peace.


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