Mopping up the blood with the brand new mop and down the red stained drains, the only thing to do was plead this was the last murder on his shift. Vincent was a ‘janitor’ so to speak, but not one for some high school or airport. He worked for a company that operated underground, killing off those who have committed crimes worth mentioning in the past. Vincent discovered this after two of his three years working for the company. He witnessed his first kill at 22; the man who performed it was one of the so called doctors at the facility.
Vincent stood on the upper level and watched through the glass. He saw the doctor tie the man down, and punch in his teeth. He heard the doctor ask if he knew why he was here, but the man just spit blood into his face. The doctor merely shrugged. He then placed pins under each fingernail of the now fretting man, and slammed the end of a hammer into them. Vincent heard the curdling scream as the sharp points drove deeper and deeper into his fingers, breaking the bond between skin and bone as they went. Vincent began vomiting and was yelling at the doctor to stop but he wouldn’t. He grabbed a torch from the wall of many assorted tools and set it next to the man’s limp body; he had passed out from the pain. Vincent watched the doctor hesitate as he made his next move. He put on latex gloves and sighed. Three fingers reached towards each eye socket and gripped around their core. He yanked each out with surprising ease, and let them hang from his face. He put the torch to each and let them melt from the heat, the fluids dripping out like molasses creeping down his cheeks. Vincent was crying. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The doctor just finished him by stabbing his heart, and tossed the corpse aside. He turned to the cleaner and beckoned him down the stairs. Vincent saw them high-five each other as they met in the middle of the staircase as one went to clean and the other to relax.
The men and women these doctors would kill were those who got off when it came to their lawsuit, guilty but proven otherwise. The company worked like a vigilante, a side police force who would finish off the ones who cheated the system of normal law. Vincent was just in charge of cleaning up their messes. He had not had an idea of what the job required when he took the position. The initial blow of being told he was the new cleaner for ward 4 where he would watch each kill and clean it up was a bit blinding. At first he refused and threatened to call the police like anyone would. But there was no calling the police on a place like this. It came to him quickly. He was a smart man. They brought him to their operation; they showed him what they do and gave him a job of his own. He was their guest, and if he refused, death was inevitable.
There was a plus side though; he was paid well. Well meaning 4 million a year for the rest of his life. The only reason he stayed besides the fear of being skinned in his sleep if he left was the money. The money came on a schedule, and was never short. It was directly transferred to his bank account through a private acting bank he was forced, or ‘strongly encouraged’ to join. He had full access to his money at all times. Perhaps this showed he was weak in some way, so easily bought off by killers.


Today was Tuesday, meaning he worked 9 hours in ward 4, and then 2 hours in ward 2 at the end of the day, one clean up per hour. He hated working ward 2 because although it was sort of a promotion he had to watch the killings still and they always seemed a little more gruesome. The way they actually got the men and women they killed to the facility was still unknown to him, but he knew their crimes were the reason they were here. He made the connection when he saw Cheryl Streng on TV, a woman who was accused of murdering her 4 daughters. The news broadcast announced due to technicalities she hadn’t been convicted. Two days later she was here, hanging by the throat in ward 6, the last ward in the building.

Vincent’s first clean up today was for a man named Brandon Wright who would molest young children and then kill them with bits of his window he had broken off. Dr. Connor is the doctor for ward 4 and ended him by cutting off his fingers and then hands, eventually cutting his throat with a piece of a broken glass and let every drop of blood drain out of him. Vincent let out a sigh as he walked down the stairs to the all white room now filling with pints of blood, passing Dr. Connor as he went. He was over the nauseous feeling he would get stepping down the stairs and seeing those people killed, he just had a job to do now.

Vincent put on his hazard suit and ventilation mask, and mopped Mr. Wright’s blood towards the drain. He dumped his body and severed fingers and hands into a tub just big enough for a human. He filled it with a dissolving chemical acid and capped it. Someone else would enter the room and take it out onto a truck later. He brought down the protective shield that covered the wall of tools and murder weapons so they were protected from what came next. He then opened up a cabinet next to the table where the victims sit and wait to die. Inside the cabinet were large containers of bleach and another cleaning component, which he would mix into a chemical sprayer that hung on the wall and spray down the room. The other chemical helps dry the room out of anything that didn’t make it down the drain. After the room was clean he would move to each tool. Luckily Dr. Connor likes to leave his choice of tools out for Vincent to clean so they don’t contaminate the other already clean ones. After he wiped them down of their blood and flesh he would dispose of the hazard suit and mask into a hamper that was in the closet of the room and go make the trip back up the stairs. He had finished for now.

This was month 32, and this job was turning Vincent into something near a robot. At first he would silently cry as he cleaned up mess after mess, praying for these peoples families and hoping that his nightmare would end. He had a half hour between each kill and would sit in silence between each one. He would wait in the staff room with the other cleaning crews but wouldn’t engage them in conversation. They had been here for years and just enjoyed the money they would make. Vincent never thought he’d join them. He would always be miserable at this place, hoping they would kill him instead.

But months passed. The tears stopped oozing down his face and he became solid, unable to feel anything. He had been conditioned to his post, and didn’t want to quit now.
In fact,
he had a pretty good work situation. 6 am to 5 pm every Tuesday and Thursday, 6 am to 4 pm on Monday and Wednesday. No work on Friday through Sunday and he made more money than most CEO’s.

Vincent was now in the staff room, his first clean up done. People passed in and out of here and never said a word to anyone. Gary, the cleaner from 6 and his Doctor known as Mike came in, washed their hands, grabbed a drink from the fridge, and flopped into chairs beside him. Gary always had a Sprite after his first clean, and Mike would grab a seltzer water each time he killed someone. Vincent was pondering how Dr. Mike could live with himself after killing 5-10 people a day, but the doctor seemed to read his mind when he brought up the job.

“We three have it easy. Even if you are cleaning up my mess,” he said with a smirk toward Gary more than Vincent, because after all Gary was his cleaner. Vincent just nodded and before he could stop himself, like some other person inside him wanted to get out; he just had to ask Mike—
“Do you just get creative every time you end a life, or are there rules?” He blurted out. He realized he hadn’t asked anyone about this before, let alone uttered a single word to anyone. Maybe three years was his limit of quiet, now he needed to talk and find out everything he could.
“Oh there are a s*** ton of rules. Vincent was it? Hey it’s good to hear you actually talk for once! But yeah there are rules. Like for example, we have case studies every night before we can finalize—
“Is that what you call it then? Finalizing someone?” interrupted Vincent; manners were lost after years of no speech apparently.
“Yes we aren’t murderers. They are. We are paid to kill them the way they kill others,” Mike said almost with a laugh, creating silence around the room.
Gary didn’t speak the whole time; he had the expression that he had already heard this conversation before. He had a worn face that looked like its time was up. This job had not been as easy on him as Vincent thought it had. His eyes were sunken and hair was thinning. He was only 43 but looked in his 60’s with the grey in his hair and beard invading. His lips were always chapped and he was always putting on Chap Stick. Vincent would always hear the snap of the cap coming off the worn out tube and see him applying the stuff, knowing it wasn’t going to do any good.


The silence was broken when the door opened and Dr. Connor came in. He waved at the small group sitting around the table and joined them.

“Vincent, you alright man? Sorry I made such a mess of that last guy, but hey it was in my file. Oh why bother, you wouldn’t respond to me anyway.”

“Yes he will! First time I’ve heard this guy’s voice since he’s been here just a second ago!” exclaimed Mike to a shocked looking Connor. Vincent was prepared for this. He almost wished he stayed silent.

“Well what’s come over you? Curiosity got the best of you?” said Connor, his tone screaming with annoyance and disrespect. Perhaps he felt angry with Vincent for those years of silence and pretending he wasn’t being acknowledged. Either way Vincent didn’t feel bad whatsoever. Now he would be honest if he would be speaking.

“As a matter of fact it has. I want to know why the hell anyone in the their right mind would be a part of this bull—

“You’re a part of it aren’t you?” It was Gary, who said it. At first he looked scared to have said anything, but then convinced himself to go on. “Well you are. We all are. This ‘bullshit’ is your job. And you’ve been doing it pretty damn well for three years. I’ve been here for 4 and learned to love my job. Yeah, it might be sick and disgusting at times, but think what those people have done! We should be proud to work for this place.”

Vincent wanted to hit him, while both Dr. Mike and Dr. Connor looked rather pleased. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” Mike looked like he was talking to his son, so proud to hear him speak. “Vincent, we know how you felt. We all were in the same situation as you. The new guy who can’t understand why anyone would do things that we do. But I can tell that you’ve gotten over it haven’t you? You don’t even care that you picked up a man’s severed fingers and hands today, or that you’ve watched hundreds of people killed while you were here. It pays the bills and it’s your life.”

So what? So what if I’m over the fact that people are getting killed! I want to know what happens next. Do they expect us to do this for the rest of our lives?”
Nobody answered.


A few weeks had passed and it was the 4th day in December, the weather was as cold as ever. Vincent was paying close attention to the date because he sent his mother a card every 5th for her birthday. The last few weeks seemed a blur. He was so used to staying quiet and focusing on everything that happened that now that he was talking and interacting with his coworkers he seemed to have less of a memory. Vincent arrived at work a little too early, expecting traffic from snow but surprisingly there wasn’t any.
He walked in the front building doors like always and walked past the front office for a business that makes clothing tags. This was an excellent cover for the real operation that took place deep underground. He briefly waved at the woman running the desk, who knew about what happened downstairs because in theory she worked there too. Vincent then made his way to the vending machines. Here he would open the door that was built into the floor and descend down three flights of stairs in absolute darkness. He arrived inside another office, where Laura ran the front desk. The front consisted of 6 different sections of work areas, where people worked on the other bits and pieces running this corporation. To Vincent it just looked like a lot of paperwork.

Vincent walked through his path in the carpet that he has been walking in for years. He opened the airtight door to where the top floor of the wards were, where you could look through the glass. He had never been this early to work, and immediately wished to be stuck in traffic. The man who started this operation, the guy who is in charge of everything, John Santiago was standing above a man no older than Vincent who sat in a chair with blood running down his face and onto his shoes.

“I understand it is hard to believe, but you’ve been chosen based on your background. You are meant for this job. It is well paying and will lead to even greater things.” Santiago said, his voice sounded sincere and that’s what made the man look up at him. He looked proud to have just been punched in the face by the guy who just told him he was ‘meant for the job.’
Vincent was a bit taken aback; he hadn’t been given that treatment at all. He wasn’t told he was perfect for the job; he was threatened to be killed, and was in no way given hints of greatness that came from being a cleaner.
The man in the chair spoke very slowly, and his expression was impossible to read. “Thank you Mr. Santiago. I assure you I will not let you down. If I am meant for this job, than I will do the best to my ability to fulfill my duties.”
“And so you will Mr. Haven.” And with that Santiago turned and walked toward Vincent. “If you were listening I’m sure you noticed the difference between the two of you. You just started speaking last week, and I don’t want that to happen to Haven. He is new and going to work like an apprentice to you. All the other wards are full on cleaners, and he might need some encouraging.”
“Why have you assigned him to me then?”
“Because you need him,” he waved his hands around gesturing toward the whole room and finished with, “I assure you it has nothing to do with your skill set. Mostly for what comes next.”

He smiled to himself and left the two in the room looking as confused as ever. Vincent didn’t like Santiago. He turned toward Haven and tried to see what this man was about. He looked at his facial expression but it was impossible to read. He dressed a bit different, very perfectly proportioned and dark. Haven smiled at him with his eyes not his mouth and it was very brief.
“My full name is Tom, Tom Haven. How long have you worked here for?”

“This is my third year this January. So you’re new huh? I hope you do better than what I’ve been doing,” Vincent said with a bit of guilt in his voice.

“I know exactly how you’ve been doing Vincent. It seems we all have taken notice. They brought me here,” he gestured toward the room like Santiago did, “a few months ago, to witness it myself. You’re excellent at cleaning you know. But you do not socialize. You constantly defy what we need you to do.”

“What are you talking about? I just saw your f*ing interview! I went through the same thing you ju—

“You are wrong Vincent. I am no apprentice. I am your replacement. Your time working here is over. To be brutally honest your work has slowed us down. We are downsizing the company starting with you. Goodbye.” And with that statement he shot Vincent in the chest, right in the heart.


“Good morning Vincent,” said Tom Haven who came in the hospital room with two coffees and a newspaper. He set the newspaper down on the table beside the bed where a blank birthday card lay. “Do you know where you are at?” He did that annoying hand gesture that Vincent hated.

Vincent’s look was puzzled. He had no idea where he was. He just stared up at Haven but was unable to move or speak. His thoughts were wild. He had just been shot by the man in front of him, he had just been killed! He wondered whether or not he was in heaven, but he didn’t believe in god so surely it must be hell.

“You must be paralyzed from the medicine. That means it is working. You’ve been making quite the scene throughout the hospital. You remember me. I am your doctor; I’ve been running experiments with you for three years, trying to get you back to your normal self. You remember me. You remember yourself too Vincent. You were a successful doctor, not much different than me. You were an assigned doctor for crime scenes. Remember your hobbies? You like to read. You like to write. You had an odd need to watch the killings at death row, remember? You needed to see those criminals put to their death, the same criminals who brought you your patients. That is what brought you here Vincent. That is the cause of everything,” said Tom who seemed to have spoken these words before. They were perfectly executed. Tom had them perfectly worded because Vincent was indeed remembering the words of Tom Haven, but not the events themselves. It was like he had heard them before.

Vincent found the ability to move his lips and muttered three words barely audible to Haven yet still heard. “I do remember.”

“Just like every time,” said Haven with small tears in his eyes as he turned his back to Vincent whose eyes were shutting for their final time. He walked out of the room and met up with his colleague Dr. Connor and handed him his coffee, together they walked to the staff room.