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The Black Stain

Holden Zuras

    A viscous black stain had scarred the dining room wall of the Robertson’s house. Lauren Robertson had scrubbed at the stain for years. No matter what chemicals or cloth she used, the mark remained, overpowering the light yellow paint like a squadron of fighter planes.
    After many nights scrubbing the stain, Mrs. Robertson eventually decided to position her husband’s chair in front of the stain. At first Mr. Robertson barely noticed where his chair was positioned, but one night, a row broke out in the house. It had been an especially hard day at work for Mr. Robertson, and he released his fury in the form of a verbal tempest directed at his wife. She only felt pity for her husband. He didn’t mean a word of his tirade, but one peculiar comment stuck with her. During Mr. Robertson’s rage, he lashed out and struck his chair, complaining that it brought him no comfort and may as well be an electric chair.
    That night, after Mr. Robertson was in bed, Mrs. Robertson crept downstairs to the dining area. Removing her husband’s chair, she examined the black stain. It had grown in size, with a radius at least twice the size of when she last saw it. She couldn’t bear the sight of it any longer. It was like bearing the burden of a thousand pounds of iron.
    She went into the garage to retrieve a canister of paint stripper she had neglected to use previously out of fear of it damaging the surrounding wall. When she returned, she wet a rag in the liquid and pressed it to the wall. She carefully worked it around the stain with circular motions. The black stain remained in place. She scrubbed harder. The black stain matched her strength.
    With a desperate effort, she tore her nightgown from her body and doused it in the paint stripper. As the cold air of the nighttime froze her skin, she viscously scrubbed at the wall with a sort of ecstasy. After several minutes, Mrs. Roberson realized that the spot was gone and lightened her onslaught against the wall. She sighed with relief. Her nightmare was done.
    Looking down at herself, she was intrigued to see that her breasts were not their usual shade of pale white. She never slept with a bra on, and when she bowed her head to examine herself, she affirmed to herself that she was indeed naked. But something seemed to cloud her breasts. A large black stain was spreading out from her left breast. It had the same hideous viscosity of the stain on the wall. The tar colored mark continued to spread. She exhaled in muted panic. Grabbing her nightgown, she scrubbed her body with it, but the spot did not vanish. She poured the entire can of paint stripper on herself, but still the spot did not move. It was no use. The black stain had become part of her.
    The next morning, Mr. Robertson came down the stairs to find his wife in a crumpled heap on the floor. Her face was stained with the tracks of tears she cried the night before. He looked at the can of paint stripper. Then he looked at the wall. There was no black stain, but the wall had been completely ruined. The pale yellow paint had been completely stripped from the wall.
    “Poor woman,” he thought. “She must think I’ll scold her for ruining the wall. I told her not to use that paint stripper, but I’ll repaint the wall without a fuss. She meant well, the poor girl.”

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