A World of Grime

Manuel

An annoying ringing began to rattle around Manuel's ear, and opening one eye, he saw his alarm clock shake and turn on the bedside table. he yawned, extending his hands to open the airway, only to have the smell from outside infiltrate his humble abode. Eyes went wide with fury, as he scrambled for the window, but it was too late, he was blinded by pure white unadulterated sunlight, letting out a feeble groan and flopping onto the stained creaky floorboards. At a snail's pace, he turned around, facing the floor, and pushed up, arching his back into a slump. He finally sighed, raising himself and waddling over to the bathroom. 

Manuel was not the typical citizen of the ramshackle town he lived in. For one, he was clean, not just in clothing, but in body as well. Not only was that rare, it was downright absurd to some, possibly even a bit excessive. Most who owned a house had at least some dirt, but in Manuel's, if there was, the whole house was to be deep cleaned. He was a little bit of a germaphobe, to say the least, which was surprising for the job he'd taken on arrival, a doctor. Another odd factor was his memory. He knew every person inside and out; their face, their pet (if they had one), where they were situated in the town, everything. And finally, his house. There were no holes, no areas broken into, no faulty oil lamps, nothing wrong with it. It was like a capital house but downgraded. 

He reached around and found his drawer of towels, drying himself, and wrapping his quickly cooling body in anything warm. reaching lower, he found the drawer of clothes, and took out a pair of white cloth trousers and a cloth shirt, placing them in a chlorine bath, and grabbed a Black tight-fitting thermal pair too, quickly putting them on his now dry body. They were snug, but useful with the white cloth ones. He could tear off any piece of the cloth and use it like a bandage without worrying about getting a cold or anything similar during his daily duties. He grabbed the white clothes out of the chlorine, placing them on a large heated rail that he'd been warming up, and grabbed his checklist, walking through the house bit by bit to check for any dirt. 

When you looked in, you would notice every piece of furniture, every step of his staircase, every drop of paint he had splattered on his walls, was an odd mishmash of colours, shades, textures, and sizes. Written above his front door on the frame read 'gift, and ye shall receive'. He'd painted it there the moment the house was finished, and it had stayed there ever since, never being re-painted. He never took money from people for his work, only a small gift, like a chair, or cutlery, or pipe work, or even materials. 

Once his check-up was done, He ran back upstairs, grabbing off the dry clothes from the heated rail and placing them over the top of the thermals. Quickly he folded back in the rail, turning it off with a pressure switch on the wall. Running back downstairs again, it was no wonder he was so lean, screeching to a halt at the kitchen side to make some quick breakfast, before rushing again to a large side room from the hallway near the stairs side. He flicked on the light. The back room was filled wall to wall with equipment, ingredients, powders, creams, lotions, and stockpiled insulin he'd found in an old doomsday preppers cabin. He walked directly past all of it, straight for his most important equipment. In a cabinet, a clear glass cabinet, were his six glass surgical syringes, with about 8 sterilised hypodermic needle attachments for them inside a small drawer right next to it. They were cleaned every day, even if they weren't used. He was cautious to touch them unless it was necessary, and always with a glove on. He leant over and grabbed a small notepad from the side, reading the list of what he needed for that day's town trip in a mutter, and finding the designated shelf. He passed every house in town with a gentle knock, and even went into a few alleyways he knew people stayed in, but houses on the list were of high importance, and he'd pay them the utmost attention. Besides, they weren't only his fellow residents, but also his friends. He collected all the pills in a huff, before bursting out the side door to grab his cart. 

The outside of his house wasn't pretty, but it worked for him. It had no paint; a dull brown lay through the entire house, and stayed that way. What was odd, however, was that he had that side room, but off of that was a driveway. This was only odd because cars weren't a possibility anymore. But that didn't bother him. In fact, he had a good reason for that space, as in it, he had a brown tiered wooden wagon. slowly he moved each crate of medication and supplies onto the wagon, making sure that the space he placed them hadn't warped or gotten muddy. If it was, then everything would be removed, and the entire wagon was to be deep cleaned and fixed any way he could. But this time it was all okay, and the crates all snugly sat in their spots on the wagon. Running back into the house, he grabbed out 4 separate extra wagon carriages that trailed behind the wagon as it rolled one at a time, attaching them with a small rope around the ball and socket. In the end, there were 8 crates of medication and supplies, a large basin of purified water covered over, and two of his needles in another box, with 4 attachments in with it. Checking the list again, it was all ready, and with another 15 minutes before he was on time. The sun was about fully over the houses when he reached over and pulled on a small chain, setting off a variety of devices to let all around know that his duties were to be fulfilled.