Cleaning

The awakening was a slow and painful return to a body that no longer belonged to her. Magi opened her eyes to the gray light filtering through her apartment's blinds, and for one blessed instant, she didn't know where she was or why every muscle screamed in pain. Then, the memory fell onto her chest like a slab: the cold water, the blindfolded hands, the fingers pressing on her lower belly, the man's clinical voice delivering his verdict—Human.

A shiver so violent ran down her spine that she had to sit up in bed, hugging herself. She looked at her hands. She expected to see marks, dirt, something that would betray the violation of the night before. But they were clean. Only the memory persisted, etched onto her skin like an invisible tattoo.

The bus ride to the aquarium was a trance. She no longer hunched in the seat. She sat up straight, staring out the window without seeing the passing buildings. The sensation of the metal rings on her hips was a ghost that followed her, a cold weight that wouldn't shake off. She noticed she no longer crossed her arms over her chest defensively. She let them hang at her sides, as if hiding no longer mattered. Normalization, she understood with a silent horror, was not a conscious surrender; it was a slow-advancing necrosis of the soul, killing parts of her without her being able to do anything to stop it.

Upon arriving, the common locker room held no surprises today. Only her tiny uniform, folded with the same military precision as always. She put it on with the automated movements of a nun dressing in her habit. The rough fabric no longer produced indignation. It was just clothing. The costume for her role today.

The workday was a ghost of normalcy. She cleaned glass, answered tourist questions with an empty smile, and fed the clownfish. A child pointed at her shorts and asked loudly, "Mom, why is that lady wearing so little clothing?" The mother silenced him with an embarrassed whisper and dragged the child away. Magi watched them go but felt no blush. Only an absurd distance, as if she were observing the scene from very far away.

At lunchtime, she sat alone in a corner of the staff cafeteria. Cloe was at another table, hunched over her tray, eating without appetite. Their eyes met once, briefly. There was no complicity, not even recognition. Only the shared emptiness of two strangers who had survived the same shipwreck and had nothing left to say to each other. Lara, as usual, was nowhere to be found.

It was then that May appeared at the cafeteria door. She didn't look for anyone. She simply raised her hand slightly and made a two-finger gesture. A small, almost discreet gesture, but one that cut through the room's murmur like a knife.

Magi saw it. And her body reacted before her mind. She stood up, leaving her food half-eaten. There was no thought, no internal debate. Her body simply obeyed. Cloe, at the other table, also rose, her expression a mask of tired resignation.

May didn't wait. She turned on her heels and began to walk. Magi and Cloe followed her a few steps behind, like two shadows. There was no need for words. The message of the gesture was clear: The fun is over. It's time to work again.

May didn't take them to the white preparation room. Instead, they descended a service staircase Magi had only used once, toward the lower levels where the filtration and maintenance tanks were located. The air was colder here, and it smelled of motor oil and ozone-saturated water.

"No show for guests today," May said over her shoulder, her voice cutting through the hum of the machines. "Today is real work. Deep maintenance of the shark tank. Resistant algae have been detected on the interior glass. We need a manual cleaning."

She stopped in front of a steel hatch. She pointed to some hooks on the wall. Three bikinis hung there. They were not made of scales or vinyl, but simple, solid-colored, cheap, tight-fitting elastic fabric triangles: red for Magi, green for Cloe, blue for Lara. Beside them were abrasive sponges and metal scrapers.

"Precise movements are needed. Flexibility," May said, as if explaining the obvious. "Standard suits are too bulky."

There was no emotion in her voice. It was a technical instruction. That was the most humiliating part: the normalcy with which their exposure was decreed.

Magi took off her tiny uniform—which now felt almost like armor—and put on the red bikini. The thin straps dug into her shoulders. The top triangle barely contained her breasts. Cloe, in the green, tried in vain to adjust the straps to cover herself a little more. Lara, the most resigned, put on the blue one without batting an eye.

"The tools," May instructed, handing each of them a rough sponge and a scraper with a long handle. "You have one hour. The sharks are sedated, but don't underestimate the time. The sedative wears off."

May had given the instructions in a clinical voice and had left, leaving behind a silence charged with ominous freedom. The metallic hatch closed behind her with a definitive snap. They were alone. For the first time in weeks, there were no gazes to evaluate them, no orders to be followed instantly. Only the hum of the machinery and the impossible task ahead.

The work was a battle lost from the start. Magi bent down to scrape a crust of algae off a sensor and the top strap gave way, leaving her chest exposed. She cursed under her breath, adjusting it with clumsy, wet fingers. The sponge slipped, heavy and useless. The bikini turned into a second skin of misery, soaked and transparent.

Cloe, trying to reach an algae patch under the platform, knelt in the puddle of saltwater. The green fabric stuck to her skin, exposing everything. With a cry of frustration, she threw the scraper into the water.

"It's useless! This crap is good for nothing!"

Her voice echoed in the empty chamber. There was no one to impress, no one to defy. Just the task. Magi looked at her, and in her eyes there was no reproach, but a deep, bitter understanding. The bikini was not a garment; it was the last symbol of a modesty that only got in the way.

"Then take it off," Magi said, her voice hoarse from effort and salt. "Who are we trying to fool?"

Cloe looked at her, at first with disbelief, then with a rage that transformed into a horrifying flash of lucidity. With abrupt movements, she untied her top and then her bottom, throwing the soaked garments against the steel wall. She stood there, naked and trembling, splattered with dirty water and algae residue. She took a deep breath, as if it were the first breath of clean air in weeks.

Lara, seeing them, said nothing. She simply shrugged, as if she had always known it would end this way. She set her tool aside and stripped off the blue bikini with the same naturalness with which she would take off a pair of gloves. She continued her work, unperturbed, rubbing the glass with the sponge directly on her skin.

Magi was the last. She untied the knots of the red bikini with fingers that barely trembled. The damp fabric peeled off and fell with an insignificant splash. The nudity was not an act of liberation, but of surrender. It was the final admission that her body no longer belonged to her, not even for the purpose of hiding it. It was a tool, an instrument for the task. And tools don't need clothes.

They worked in silence, their naked bodies gleaming under the halogen lights, rubbing, scraping, cleaning. Their skin reddened from the effort and the cold water. There was no modesty, no shame. There was a terrible and practical familiarity. They passed tools to each other without looking, stepping aside to make room, like workers on a surreal assembly line.

When they finished, the layer of algae had disappeared. The sensors gleamed under the water. They looked at each other. There was no triumph in their eyes, only a deep emptiness.