THEIR MESSES. THEY
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Born into noise. Not the warm kind — not laughter or music — but slammed doors and the clink of cheap liquor bottles rolling across the kitchen counter. Father being the kind of man who believed control was the same thing as strength; gambling like he was chasing destiny and drinking like he was punishing it. When losing money, he blamed the world. When he lost control, he blamed his family. When in a bad mood, he would take it out on her — and her twin sister. Sometimes they didn’t go to school for weeks. Bruises took time to fade and their parents didn’t want anyone to see them. Split lips needed explanations. Long sleeves became routine. Always telling teachers they were sick or that they fell. The lies had been imprinted in their minds. Mother, not cruel — just tired. Always pregnant, always recovering and always working. She relied on the twins as caretakers before they were 10. Being close with her twin sister; late nights whispering under shared blankets. An unspoken pact: if one of us survives this, we both do.
Being 16, when everything shifted. A night that began just like the others. Drunken father, younger siblings hiding under the table — he had been losing again. She didn’t disappear fast enough as their father shoved her into a glass cabinet, grabbing her wrists too tight. That night it was different; he was going to kill her. Her twin sister was there — suddenly, reacting with adrenaline, as she hit his head with something sharp. His head hitting the floor — everything was silent. Checking his pulse together; there wasn't one. There was no discussion whether to call for help; help had never helped them. They had cleaned blood before, they had hidden bruises before. Cleaning the house of evidence with shaking hands until they finally buried him in the garden. Packing his bags, cash gone from the drawer, his favorite jacket gone. Telling their mother he had left. After that, the house was completely different. Their mother went into shock, not being able to work or take care of the younger kids. Everything was silent. The whole world had stopped in the Hammond house.
At 25, carrying the weight of a childhood that was never meant for children. Having low-paid jobs as a babysitter, cleaner and running errands for families that look just like her own. Keeping the children safe while their parents ignore the world.
Leaving her clients impressed — never leaving a trace behind, every surface shining.
The weekends always look the same to her — lots of bottles, lots of strangers' beds. Often hungover when showing up or in the middle of a walk of shame when showing up to work. The past has caught up to her, looking more like her father than she ever imagined. Still feeling the hands on her wrists, still waking up screaming.
Feeling empathy deeply and being deeply insecure. The type that’s afraid to get in your way, apologizing when someone else bumps into her. She was never good enough as a child — that feeling has stuck with her.
One day she got a call. ‘’I hear you’re good at cleaning’’. Almost hanging up. Almost. That’s how it began.
By day, babysitting or cleaning surfaces in mansions she will never afford to own. By night — or whenever a call comes — tying her hair up, pulling on gloves, a disposable overall and a shower cap. Scrubbing off the blood of strangers, making sure every evidence disappears. An overdose in a guest bathroom, a fight that went too far. Blood on tiles, blood on carpets. Blood where it doesn’t belong.
An ally in the underworld — they trust her because she doesn’t ask questions and will pay her well. Refusing taking jobs where children were involved. In crime scenes everything is honest; the worst has already happened.
When cleaning crime scenes, her insecurities are increased. Scared of not doing a good enough job, scared of leaving traces behind, always cleaning with shaking hands. When cleaning mansions, it’s the opposite.
Moving through days like a shadow, careful, precise, and always watchful. Somewhere inside, she wonders if peace is possible — or if she is destined only to scrub away the traces of life she never had.
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