Keep Working

Anna’s knuckles ached as she clutched the spray bottle, the cheap plastic digging into her palm. She moved with quick, nervous efficiency, swiping the rag across the glass with brisk, circular motions. The mesh vest did nothing to shield her from her reflection—she saw her own bare thighs, the vest riding dangerously high, the shape of her chest and even the faint pink of her nipples ghosting through the orange mesh.

The final bell’s echo faded, replaced by the distant squeak of shoes and the clatter of metal lockers slamming shut. Anna’s heart leapt at every sound, each step in the corridor outside making her freeze, holding her breath. She could picture herself—nearly naked but for the useless vest, socks grey with dirty water, hair sticking damp to her face—caught in the act of wiping the mirror by anyone who might wander in for a forgotten book or a last-minute errand.

Her cheeks were burning with a deep, helpless shame. The air felt colder now, every draft finding its way under the mesh, caressing her exposed skin, prickling her arms and thighs. When she stretched to wipe the upper corners, the vest bunched up, barely covering the top of her mound in front and climbing halfway up her backside. She had to keep tugging it down with one hand while cleaning with the other, but it was a losing battle—every swipe of the rag just seemed to pull the vest higher, baring more of her skin to the empty, echoing room.

The mirrors made it worse. Every angle showed her from another perspective: the vest nearly transparent against her chest, her nipples obvious, the dark V of her pubic region peeking beneath the hem, the pale curve of her bare ass when she turned. She felt her breath catch as she noticed a streak and leaned in to clean it, her whole left side and breast exposed in the glass—her reflection a cruel confirmation of how little the vest concealed.

Anna caught the eye of the old woman in the mirror, watching her work with utter indifference. Not a hint of sympathy. The woman just pointed to another spot and muttered instructions Anna barely understood, never breaking her stone-faced stare.

The school grew quieter still. The last lockers closed with a heavy clang. The final echo of laughter vanished. Anna was alone with her humiliation, left behind with the mop and the vest, her only company a janitor who treated her like any other piece of furniture in need of cleaning.

When she finally finished, Anna stepped back, panting softly, arms aching. She looked at her own haunted eyes in the mirror—seeing herself as she was: exposed, humiliated, and completely at the mercy of others. The mesh vest hung crooked and wrinkled from her shoulders, offering neither modesty nor warmth, and the sounds of the empty school pressed in around her like a fog, deepening the sense of abandonment and vulnerability.

She pressed her legs together, the cold tile beneath her feet seeping up through her soggy socks, and fought the urge to cry. All she could do was wait, exposed and uncertain, hoping for a reprieve that never seemed to come.