The open space between the dresser and the bookcase in Jon’s room was seven inches wide. His vacuum cleaner was eleven inches wide. Every other month, when it came time for Jon to fully clean his room, he always lamented the fact that the tiny square of carpet between his dresser and his bookcase would remain dusty, dirty, un-vacuumed. He had lived alone ever since he had had the means to, and he valued the independence that decision had given him. This made it doubly frustrating when Cleaning Day came and he lost a small bit of agency over his otherwise orderly routine.

 

Today was one such day. Earlier in the morning, Jon had cleaned his room and once again left that patch of the floor dirty. He owned an old-fashioned vacuum, one that didn’t have a hose or any other modern enhancements, so sucking up the dust was not an option for him. As usual, he sighed and resigned himself to the sad reality of a slightly dusty floor. This time, though, a sense of discomfort rose in Jon’s stomach. He felt uneasy leaving his room in this state, but he had an appointment to keep. He rushed out the door, trying to dismiss the sudden attack of malaise.

 

Several minutes later, he was catching up with friends at a local cafe. During the idle chatter of ‘How’ve you been?’s and ‘How’s it going?’s, Jon’s mind drifted back to the still-dirty square of carpet. He imagined it was proud, celebrating its escape from dusting like a pet dog who hates taking baths. Jon suddenly felt drawn to his room, compelled to deal with his unfinished business. He didn’t want to leave his friends, but the feeling grew stronger and stronger. He didn’t feel safe. If he wasn’t in control of something as simple as the hygiene of his room then how could he feel like he was in control of anything else? As long as the carpet remained dusty, Jon was vulnerable. He needed to return, move the dresser or the bookcase, and finish what had been started. Then, he knew, everything would be clean, safe, perfect.

 

“I think I-uh-left the faucet running,” he distractedly lied, and stood up from the table. His chair teetered back onto two legs for a fraction of a second, but did not fall. Jon brushed aside his friends’ concerned questions and hastily darted out of the cafe. Racing back home, he ignored the confused looks that people on the street gave him. He almost felt like this was the fastest he had ever run in his life. His feet were magnets, involuntarily attracted back to his dirty room, propelled by the unacceptable thought of living in impurity.

 

After a brief sprint, Jon stood panting over the offending square of carpet, determined to conquer it. The adjacent dresser was solid mahogany, bolted to the wall in order to prevent toppling during earthquakes. Jon pulled first, then tried pushing. He threw the full force of his weight into each shove, awkwardly digging his heels into the carpet. It wasn’t moving. The wood barely even shivered after each push. He switched to a different stance, both hands against the wood paneling, elbows hyperextending. When that didn’t work, Jon switched his attention to the much-less-rigid bookcase. It was top-heavy, with souvenirs and spare change and picture frames strewn all over the highest shelf. It stood in the corner of the room, so pushing it wasn’t an option, but each second that he spent thinking about what to do was another second that the dust was encroaching on his perfect carpet. He grabbed the corner of the bookcase with his bruised hands and threw it down to the floor. The sound was enormous. All of the knicknacks splayed out across the carpet, falling in a bizarre pattern. Jon dragged the defeated bookcase forward, out of the way, kicking family pictures aside. He ran to the closet and pulled out the vacuum cleaner, obtusely cradling it like a baby. Jon ran back to his room, but the handle of the cleaner hit the top of the door frame and bounced off. That shook him. He steadied himself. This wasn’t the bookcase. He couldn’t treat it like the bookcase. This was the vacuum. This was precious. This was what would cure him. He couldn’t damage it.

 

Jon missed the outlet twice in his haste to plug in the cord, but eventually succeeded in bringing power to the vacuum. He ran it over the square of carpet. Once forward, then backwards at an angle, then forward again, in the shape of an ‘N’. It was finished. The room was completely clean. Jon fell back on his bed. He had regained control. Relief of reliefs...

 

Minutes later, after he had emptied the dust bag in the trash bin, Jon felt a tingling on his arm. It was the same feeling as walking through a spiderweb, phantom gossamer threads kissing skin with the softest of touches. He washed his hands just for peace of mind, just to ensure that all traces of the troublesome dust had been eradicated, but the eerie sensation remained. Rinse and lather, rinse and lather. Jon’s sleeves were pulled up to his mid-biceps. The drain was clogged with all of the soap. Water fell sloppily over the edges of the sink. His arms were almost completely submerged, and yet he couldn’t shake the pervading sense of dirtiness. All hope of washing the irritation away had left. Now Jon was digging, digging, digging away with his fingernails. He felt filthy. Dust had gotten under his clothes, under his flesh. All he could do was try to dig it out.

 

Skin broke. Jon started. He looked down and saw a red slit becoming more defined on the back of his left hand. Slowly, a drop of blood leaked out. He realized he must have cut himself in his hysterical attempt to dig out the dust. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking on the wound to numb the physical pain, but there was still nothing he could do to quell the mental agony.

 

Searching for some sort of answer to this most bizarre, sudden obsession, Jon looked over at his window and saw particles floating lazily in the afternoon sunlight. They were taunting him. “You're losing a war with dirt,” they were saying. “How much more useless could you be?” Jon needed relief, relief like he had felt after vacuuming.

 

He breathed in. Breathed out. Breathed. Imagined a perfect black felt square. It was a meditation technique, something he had learned years ago. In. Out. The square was still. In. Out. Perfect black. No light, no white, no gray. In. A speck appeared on a corner of the square. As Jon breathed Out, he imagined he was blowing away the speck. It fluttered away. The square was still once more. In. Out. In. Another speck appeared, this time on the opposite corner. He blew it away, another speck appeared, then another. A quick breath In, two quick breaths Out. Speck after speck appeared on the square. Jon couldn’t breathe fast enough. In. Out. Out. Out. Specks creeping in from the periphery of his mind’s eye, crawling over the felt in great big waves, like crashing sand dunes. In. Hyperventilating. He needed a leaf blower, but he couldn’t imagine one. The specks were in control of his brain, of his imagination. He was the intruder. The darkness of Jon’s thoughts was chipped, broken, shattered. All of a sudden, the previously perfect black square was now the square of carpet, haunting him still after he had made his penance. He couldn’t escape. He was trapped in a prison made of light and specks and his rising heart rate. 

 

DUST! Dust is in his eyes, it’s under his fingernails. Scrub them raw. Tear them out. His blood is dust. Poison is sludging through his arteries. He can’t run. It’s inside of him. How, how, how to escape, escape, escape, escape? The solution appears! A steak knife in a block on the kitchen counter. Once again, Jon’s path is clear. With no hesitation, he plunges it into his stomach up to the hilt and slices it right in a clean arc across his abdomen. This time, though, there’s no relief, not even temporarily. Dust spills out of his body like a waterfall, like a shattered hourglass. It doesn’t stop. The poison is leaving but it won’t stop flowing. Panicked, delirious, Jon realizes he must stop it at its source. The decision being made, he runs back to his room. The wound in his stomach is open wide, hungry for more, chewing with each step. He stops when he makes it to the space in-between his dresser and the toppled bookcase. He tries one more slow breath In, but it is in vain. There was no part of him that had not been consumed by the dust. There was no trace of the black felt. He would not lose the war. He could not lose the war.

 

Jon slammed his head into the corner of the dresser. It was sharp. It was instant. He was finally free from the dust in his head. Blood pooled in the square of carpet that was too narrow to vacuum clean.