A practical repair

The door to Sub-Officer Costa’s office closed behind her with a definitive click. The air smelled of aggressive cleaner and unyielding authority. Magi stood, limping slightly, her ankle still throbbing. The shreds of the pink skirt hung from her waist, a cold, crunchy reminder of her failure. Beneath them, her undergarments felt like a brand of exposed shame.

Costa did not look directly at her at first. She toyed with a long, old key she had taken from a drawer.

“Damage to institutional property is one of the most serious offenses, Cadet,” she began, her voice calm but loaded with an underlying threat. “A uniform is not just any garment. It is a symbol. And you have turned it into a rag.”

Magi lowered her gaze, fixing it on the gleaming floor tiles.

“It was an accident, Sub-Officer. The suspect...”

“Don't tell me about the suspect!” Costa cut in, striking the key against the desk. The metallic sound made Magi flinch. “You tripped. You failed. You destroyed the only standard issue garment you were assigned. Excuses don't clean up the mess.”

She paused, letting the silence weigh on Magi like a stone slab.

“Since your error has created a mess,” she continued, coldly, “your punishment will be to clean one up. The institution believes in practical reparation.” She raised the key. “This opens the cleaning cupboards for the common bathrooms in the north wing. The ones the male cadets use after physical education hours.”

Magi felt her stomach clench. Those bathrooms were notoriously disastrous.

“Of course,” Costa added, and for the first time that night, a cruel smile appeared on her lips, “you cannot perform cleaning duties wearing... that.” She pointed to the uniform scraps with disdain. “It would get even dirtier. And we have had enough trouble with the laundry already.”

She stood up and approached Magi. Her gaze was icy.

“You will keep the regulation base layer. What didn't tear. And to protect yourself from the dirt, you will only use the quartermaster's apron, Cadet.”

Magi understood. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. A new low in her spiral of humiliation.

With trembling hands and under Costa's penetrating stare, Magi had to shed the ruined scraps of the skirt and blouse. The pink fabric fell to the floor. Costa tossed her a thick, rough canvas apron. Magi tied it around her waist, feeling the contrast of the coarse fabric against her skin and her scant underwear. The apron barely offered any body coverage, but it made visible, by exclusion, what lay beneath. Sub-Officer Costa nodded with an expression of cold satisfaction.

“The cleaning must be impeccable. I will personally inspect it,” Costa said, handing her the cold key. “Start immediately. And Cadet...” she added, just as Magi turned to leave. “Make sure to use the proper protective gear. Gloves and a mop. Nothing else.”

The walk to the bathrooms was a feverish dream. Magi moved like an automaton, feeling the air of the freezing corridor on her exposed skin. The short canvas apron left her legs bare. Her limping movement accentuated the visible exposure of her backside with every step, making her feel the cold of shame on her skin. Fortunately, the hallways were almost empty at that hour. Almost. A cadet leaving a room saw her pass and gaped, before letting out a choked laugh and hurrying away.

When she opened the heavy door to the common bathrooms, a wave of pungent odor hit her: stale sweat, dampness, the sickly-sweet scent of cheap disinfectant mixed with the stench of urine. The sight was worse. The cement floors were wet and dirty with mud and grass. The sinks, stained with toothpaste and dirty water. The communal showers, with floors covered in a viscous layer. And the urinals... Magi looked away, feeling nauseous.

Hanging from a hook next to the trash cans were a mop, a dustpan, and a pair of large, grotesque yellow rubber gloves.

With trembling fingers, she put on the gloves. The cold, rough rubber reached almost to her elbows, brutally contrasting with the obscene delicacy of her underwear, which was her only covering. It was a humiliating image.

She picked up the mop. The handle was rough and heavy. As she plunged it into the bucket of dirty water and disinfectant, the cold liquid splashed her bare legs, making her shiver.

The work was a slow, methodical ****. Every move to push the mop across the slimy shower floor involved bending over; every twist exposed her figure humiliatingly beneath the meager apron. The sound of the dirty water being dragged, the scraping of the mop, her own ragged breathing, were the only sounds... until they weren't.

The door burst open. Two cadets entered, still sweaty and panting from exercise. Seeing her, they stopped dead.

"Damn!" one exclaimed. "Do we have premium cleaning service now?"

The other laughed, leaning against the urinal wall.

"Hey, Pinky, do you clean... specific areas too?"

Magi froze, crouched down, the mop dripping between her gloved hands. She felt their eyes scanning her bare back, her legs, the line of her underwear under the apron, which she knew was completely visible.

The blush of shame burned her neck and face.

"Leave her alone, she's the new quartermaster intern," the first one said sarcastically, walking over to a sink to wash his hands, deliberately splashing water near her. She didn't move. She couldn't. The ridicule and shame had her pinned to the cold, damp floor.

"What's wrong?" the other asked, moving closer. "Is the smell making you dizzy? It's understandable, it's your first day."

The door opened again. It was Sub-Officer Costa. Her eyes scanned the scene: Magi, crouched and ****, the two laughing cadets, the semi-clean floor.

"It seems you are socializing instead of cleaning, Cadet Rojas," she said, her voice cutting. "Do you think this is a social club?"

The two cadets immediately straightened up, stifling their laughter.

"Sub-Officer. We were just... hydrating."

"Get out of here," Costa ordered without looking at them. They obeyed immediately, casting a final mocking glance at Magi.

Costa approached. Her gleaming boots settled next to the bucket of dirty water.

"The urinal floor has calc stains," she said, pointing with her foot at a white mark. "It's not enough to mop. You have to scrub. On your knees. With the scourer." She pointed to a green, rough scourer hanging from a hook. "And use the gloves. I wouldn't want your... delicate nails... to get ruined."

The order was clear. Another descent on the scale of degradation. Magi, her spirit shattered, nodded slowly. She knelt on the wet, cold floor. The sensation of the dampness seeping through the thin fabric of her underwear was nauseating and profoundly humiliating. She picked up the scourer, dipped it in the dirty water, and began to scrub the white stain on the cement floor, in front of the urinals.

Costa watched her for a moment longer.

"Clean doesn't mean damp. It means impeccable. Don't leave here until you can eat off this floor." And with that, she turned and left, leaving Magi alone in her task. Kneeling on the dirty floor of a men's bathroom, dressed only in rubber gloves and a scanty apron, scrubbing away other people's filth while tears of humiliation and silent rage fell, one after another, mixing with the dirty water in the bucket.