The Janitor's Requiem

The continuous murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the gentle tap of pricey shoes on marble filled the hotel lobby. The polished flooring shined glamourously, it added undistuped beauty to the already well designed floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a world of luxury and money for Thomas Ward, it was a dream. The sweat from the heat stuck to his skin as he used the back of his palm to wipe his brow. His once-clean white shirt was drenched and stuck to his toned back. Although the hotel's air conditioning had always been erratic, it seemed to have completely failed today.

Thomas didn't mind since he was used to pain, muscular aches, and the feeling that everything was just out of his grasp. The steady sound of the mop scratching the marble was a constant in his otherwise peaceful world as he held onto the handle and dragged it over the floor. He walked past the opulent chandelier, its crystal facets gleaming like diamonds in the sunlight. Thomas didn't raise his head. He didn't. He had no right to appreciate the beauty all around him. Not as he was cleaning up the mess that its opulent residents had left behind. The sleeves of his uniform pulled up to his elbows, the name tag was hardly visible, and the outfit was a size too small. His look lacked elegance; he lacked a fitted suit and polished shoes. Only a janitor's uniform, old and soiled from years of usage. He had never been the kind to feel sorry for himself, but now he felt more burdened than normal by his predicament. The perspiration, the heat, and the never-ending reminder that he was just a cog in a machine that didn't give a damn about him. As they passed, a group of well-dressed people laughed loudly and confidently. Thomas had long ago mastered the art of blending in, so he hardly noticed them. That was simpler. That was safer. He knelt down and wiped at a dust particle on the floor, but it had already vanished. Again and again, the same deed. tidy. Sweep, wipe, and repeat. A woman's voice broke through the lobby's din. It was like a razor, slicing through the air. Take a look at it. One another of those unseen, pitiful employees. With his hand still on the mop, Thomas froze. He knew who it was without having to look up. Tiffany. Her high-pitched laugh irritated him as it reverberated through the marble. She was blonde, well-groomed, and wearing an outfit that likely cost more than his whole monthly pay. He could almost see her now. Her companions all wore similar displays of superiority as she walked among wealthy socialites. Thomas ignored the snickers from the others. He did. "Really, it's sad," Tiffany said, her tone brimming with sarcastic pity. "You'd think they could hire better staff given all the money this place makes." Isn't it almost embarrassing? The familiar sting of embarrassment crept up Thomas's neck, but he remained silent. He continued to stare at the floor, his attention focussing on the mop he was holding. There was no use in answering, no use in showing her respect with a response. It would just exacerbate the situation. However, the interminable hush continued. Another speaker, a man Thomas dimly recognised as one of the frequent guests at the hotel, said, "I bet he'll be cleaning up someone else's mess for the next twenty years." Despite clenching his jaw, Thomas remained silent. Now he felt their gaze on him, sweeping over him like a species on exhibit. He refused to let them see how uncomfortable he was, even while his gut twisted in a familiar knot. He was a few paces behind them, and as they moved away, he could hear their voices becoming softer and their laughing louder. It made no difference. It didn't. He would continue to clean. His life had become a never-ending loop, and he would continue to clean up their trash. After a few minutes, the lobby started to calm down. Businesspeople called, guests withdrew to their rooms, and the hotel reverted to its immaculate, well-maintained appearance. Thomas was alone himself for a long, only interrupted by the distant hum of air conditioning and the sound of his mop. A booming voice broke the silence as he approached the lobby's furthest corner, where the great staircase started. "You!" The mop was in midair when Thomas halted. He didn't turn right away. He was anxious since the voice was unknown yet had power. It was an attention-grabbing tone, the kind one uses when they want to be heeded. Yes, you! The caretaker! This time, the voice was louder. Thomas reluctantly raised his eyes. A tall guy in his mid-forties wearing a dapper suit that exuded affluence stood at the foot of the stairway. With a calculated intensity, his eyes met Thomas's. The guy assessed Thomas's appearance, his mouth twisting in disdain, and questioned, "Do you always look like that when you're cleaning?" Although Thomas's countenance remained neutral, his heart skipped a beat. "Sir, I'm just doing my job." With a laugh, the guy looked from head to toe at Thomas as if examining goods. "I see that. However, you don't have to seem so depressed while doing it. You know, there's nothing wrong with smiling sometimes. Despite his strained muscles, Thomas remained silent. He was aware of what would happen next. With a crisp click of his shoes on the marble floor, the guy took a step forward. "You need to have a sense of pride in your job. Individuals like you-" He hesitated, allowing the words to linger like poison. You are expendable. Remember that. Even though the words hurt, Thomas's face remained the same. Deliberately ignoring the guy behind him, he returned his attention to his mop and started to move gently towards the far end of the room. The guy yelled, "Hey!" and his voice was sharper this time, piercing the atmosphere. "I'm talking to you!" Thomas's grip tightened around the handle of the mop. Beneath the surface was the need to turn around, to strike out. The rage he had suppressed for so long was surging in his veins. He could lose his temper. He may shatter anything. It would be nice, for a while. Instead, he inhaled deeply, concentrated on his work, and made his way over to the janitor's closet. He was almost at the entrance when a shadow moved across his path. Startled, he raised his head. Tiffany appeared once again in front of him, her smug look unaltered. With disdain in her eyes, she hissed, "You're pathetic." "What sort of man would allow himself to be treated in such a manner?" Thomas paused for a second. He could feel the familiar heat of fury rising as his heart thumped in his chest. As he opened his lips to reply, the door behind him crashed open violently, almost knocking him down. He turned abruptly, only to see the hotel manager standing there with a severe expression on his face. "Thomas Ward," the manager stated in a clipped, low voice. "You must accompany me." Thomas felt sick to his stomach. There was no space for debate in the manager's tone. "Now." And there was a subtle hint of something unexpected and evil in the air when the rear office door opened behind him.