A Janitor’s Work is Never Done

Somehow, the sight of a corpse never got any easier. Not really. Sure, regular and repeated exposure to them numbed the senses somewhat, but that creeping dread and repulsion never really went away.

It was the eyes that were the worst. Cold and foggy and accusing.

The janitor stepped into the building as he always did, with no small measure of hesitance or foreboding. A deep breath steadied his hand as he placed his key into the back entrance of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. Wisps curled around his mouth when he exhaled, a reminder that autumn was steadily ending and winter was approaching, and he bundled himself deeper into his jacket and stepped into the building.

His name didn’t matter. Most of the time, it wasn’t even signed to his check. That didn’t matter much to him, though. It kept things less personal.

The daily routine began the moment the door shut behind him. A few short steps brought him to the party room, chairs pushed around and even knocked over. He took his time straightening everything, dragging his feet as much as he could justify to himself. He didn’t know why the party room was always such a mess; according to the people who cleaned after hours they always made sure everything was organized before they left. He also didn’t bother wondering why too deeply. It likely would have brought up uncomfortable questions.

A bit of wandering brought the janitor to the bathrooms. Away from the saccharine atmosphere of the party room; away from the ever-present sensation of something watching him while he worked.

The bathrooms were similarly cleaned by the after-hours team when the restaurant closed down, and the women’s restroom was equally a mess when the morning came. Strangely stubborn, brownish grime clung to the tiles, some of which appeared to have been cracked by a heavy weight pressing down on them. The janitor slowly stooped down, grumbling lightly to himself about how lucky his son was as his stiff joints protested the action, and started to scrub. If he took his time making sure the tiles shone, well, nobody was there to mention it.

At last, when he could see his reflection in the floor as well as he could see it in the bathroom mirrors – not very well – he could put it off no longer. It was with heavy shoulder and heavier steps that the janitor made his way to the security office. As he rounded the corner, he held his breath, and when he poked his head in his heart dropped.

There had been a struggle.

A sigh and a quick prayer were all he offered before he started to clean. The rolling chair was tipped upright, crumpled up balls of paper and a half-drunk cup of soda – long since flat – were thrown away, and an effort was made to tape together ripped sections of posters.

Then it was time to visit the back room.

A more poetic or well-read man could have found more flowery language to describe the grisly scene, but in truth the janitor could barely even read, and what little he could was mostly limited to what he needed in order to do his job. Privately, he suspected the pizzeria had hired him because, rather than in spite, of this fact.

Besides, if you asked him, flowery language had no place in a scene as solemn as this one.

The janitor bowed his head, offered a slightly longer prayer, and made the sign of the cross across his chest. It was evident that he had practice doing it. After that, he got to the part of his job management actually paid him for.

Greasy viscera littered the floor. Blood pooled in the floor in thick puddles, and a spray of crimson marked the wall next to the door. There was so much red, too much red, so much that the taste of iron sat heavy on the janitor’s tongue. A sickly smell hung in the air, as well, and the air was oddly damp. One of the costume heads had rolled into one corner, and it was apparent from the trail of blood which trailed behind it that it had slipped off.

A gut-turning squelch accompanied every footstep the janitor made as he gathered his supplies and began to clean. By now enough time had passed that the puddles clung to his boot, so sticky that it felt as though they would come off if he weren’t careful. A distant part of his mind told him that this one hadn’t lasted long. He ruthlessly squashed it.

There was a certain order to things, a sequence that allowed the janitor to clean quickly and without having to think. It was as though he was on autopilot while he worked, scrubbing the smaller stains with a filthy rag and mopping up the larger ones. Thick gloves were put on to handle the leftovers, which were placed into a cooler that would be bleached later. The costume head was placed into a bag to similarly be bleached later so that it could return to its place on one of the shelves surrounding him. Cleaning chemicals were applied to every surface, the harsh smell masking the smell of death and erasing all evidence that anything at all had happened in that room.

The last step was taking care of the guard.

No amount of experience was ever enough to prepare oneself. No matter how many he had cleaned up after – sons and daughters disposed of, their parents never to know what happened to them, he thought, and this thought proved harder to squash – his heart always ached and his world always became a little grayer. Even with that in mind, when he finally set his eyes upon the guard, he stumbled.

He looked about as old as his son.

These were always the hardest to deal with, and as the years went by the only became more and more common. Those cold, accusing eyes stared back at him as they dangled from empty eye sockets. God, they were even the same color.

The guard had been stuffed into a Bonnie suit this time around. Uncommon, but not rare. The faux fur covering the suit was stained and matted in places, and there was an obvious hand print on the torso. An oily tract of intestines bulged from the gap between the torso and the pelvis, so thoroughly crushed after being forced out that necrosis had already set in and turned it a deep purple. A loose nerve dangled from one leg, curled into a spiral from the raw sensational exposure.

The janitor somberly approached with a large garbage bag. If he was lucky, he’d be able to fit the corpse into a single one. He didn’t think he had it in him to do any dismantling that day. He reached out and touched the suited corpse, lifting an arm experimentally in order to judge the body’s size.

The corpse wheezed.

Heart pounding up into his throat, the janitor very nearly jumped back in shock. He scrambled to remove one of the suit’s arms. A fingernail fell out and clattered to the floor, a long strip of skin fluttering behind it, but he didn’t notice. The only thing he could focus on was clasping his hand tightly around the young guard’s. The guard’s finger shook as they tried to squeeze back.

A soft sound came from the guard, mixed together with the wheezing, so soft that it was almost impossible to hear. It repeated over and over and over again, a mantra that the guard was holding onto like a lifeline. The janitor brought his ear closer to the guard’s mouth.

“Dad… dad… dad…”

Lump in his throat, the janitor pulled the guard’s head into his chest, cupped the crown of his head, and gently began to rock back and forth. He wasn’t a janitor anymore. He wasn’t an employee tasked to clean up the messes left behind by a dirty business. He was a father grieving for a son because nobody else would. He stayed there with him, soothing him with deep breaths and a firm hand. They remained in place until two became one, and then the father was forced to be a janitor once again.

No, this job never got any easier.