Mister Klean

    “I don’t like it, Mil,” Mark said.  “They should lock the bastard up!  You should’ve pressed charges.”  He watched as she gently touched her cheek.  “Still hurt?”

    Amilia shook her head.  “Just know it’s there,” she lied.  “The police scared him off; old Joe changed my locks:  it’s behind me.  I’m just glad my little brother was away on a trip.  You’d be up on a murder charge.”

    Amilia was one of the few people he didn’t mind making reference to his stature.  Her ‘little’ brother was seventeen years her senior, the man of the family since she was a baby, and the only parent she had since their mother died.

    “Speaking of trips,” he said, changing the subject, “I brought you something.”  He reached down into a bag, pulled out a package, and handed it to her.

    “You always do,” she remarked, tearing into the plain brown wrapping.  “What’s it this time, a charm to protect my virtue, or a talisman for luck?  You know, my knick knack shelf scares a lot of guys away; I think they believe you’re watching them.  Really clears away the riffraff.”

    “Not all,” he observed.

    “What is it?” She pulled out a statue of a man in armor about a foot tall, feet apart, helm under one arm and the other hand resting on the hilt of a long sword.  Both the gauntlets and spaulders were lined with spikes.  “It’s certainly – white.  Is this porcelain, ivory, what?”

    “It’s a knight,” Mark replied.  He leaned forward, lowering his voice.  “The old woman I bought it from called it the ‘White Paladin‘.  He’s said to protect the owner from all evil.”

    “He’s bald,” Amilia said, running her fingers over the head.  She giggled, “He looks like ‘Mr. Clean’.”

    Her brother sat back and laughed.  “I thought so, too.  That’s why I got him.  At worst he could do something about your apartment.”

    “You are such a brat!  I know where everything is.  Not everyone is OCD, you know.”  She paused.  “I think that’s what I’ll call him:  Mister Klean.”

    He smiled, laid money on the table for their brunch, and stood up.  “I’d better get going,” he said, kissing her.

    “Sure you can’t take a later flight?”

    “ Afraid not, Mil.  Belize tomorrow, China in two weeks.  I’ll bring you something.”

    “I know.”

    “Be careful,” he cautioned.  “Get a restraining order.”

    When Mark was gone Amilia picked up the statue.  “Come on, Mister Clean.  Let’s get you home before I go to work.”

***

    “Well, my little paladin,” she said once she was in her apartment, “where to put you?  I’m afraid you’re a bit heavy for my glass shelf.  How about here?”  She place the knight on the coffee table.  “That’s good.”

    She paused at the door.  “Mister Clean, feel free to tidy up while I’m gone.”

***

    Carl Doran was drunk.  He swayed back and forth as he jimmied a credit card into the doorjamb, smiling as Amilia’s door opened.  That old coot is useless as a janitor, he thought.  The first thing he noticed in the apartment was the white statue.

    “What the hell is this?” he asked to no one as he picked it up.  “I know where I’m going to shove this if I ever see that bitch again.”  He touched one of the spikes on the shoulder, it drew blood.  “Probably from that little prick of a brother,” he snarled, throwing the statue at the rest of her collection.  The shelf shattered on impact, and the knick knacks plummeted to the floor.

    “I gotta piss,” he said, stumbling to the bathroom.  He urinated at the toilet.  “Oh, my,” he laughed, “did I forget to lift the lid?”

    He staggered to the kitchen and drew a large carving knife from a drawer, yanked the drawer free of its slide and threw it to the floor.  He proceeded to slash furniture and smash lamps and vases.  He grew angrier as he went, repeatedly saying ‘bitch’.

    When he was satisfied with the living room Carl moved to the bedroom.  He pulled drawers from the dresser, smashing the ones that broke easily.  He went through her undergarments severing bras in half and ripping panties apart.  He attacked the wardrobe next, shredding dresses from their hangers and finally toppling the entire cabinet to the floor.  He made long slits in the mattress and demolished the table lamps against the wall.  He was tearing apart the down pillows, feathers flying everywhere, when he heard a noise behind him.

    He wheeled around brandishing the knife.  Before him, blocking the doorway, was someone dressed in white armor, so bright it appeared to be glowing; he had to shield his eyes and could not see who was behind the helmet.

    “That you old man?” he growled.  “It’s the last time you’ll ever sneak up on anyone!”

    Carl lunged at the figure, but the knife only bounced off the armor, and he was backhanded with a gauntlet so hard he was knocked to the floor.  He dragged himself to his feet using the mattress for support.  Blood was everywhere.  He looked down at his chest, his shirt was torn and long slashes were across his chest.

    “You prick! You cut me!”

    He was horrified into a stupor as the knight drew a long sword from his scabbard and swung it around in an elongated arc.  The armor was brilliant now, blazing white, bleaching the world around him; the room, his clothes, his blood – all white.

    Blinding white was the last thing Carl Doran saw before his head and torso fell in different directions.

***

    Amilia slipped her key in the lock and paused, her brother’s warning hanging in her ears.  She slowly pushed the door open and flipped on the wall switch.  She froze in the doorway in astonishment.  Her gaze fell on her neatly arranged knick knacks, panned around the room, and lastly to Mister Klean on the coffee table.

    “That little brat,” she exclaimed, “he did take a later flight!”



(word count = 1000).
Written for: "Invalid Item" , 5 Mar 2012.
Prompt: Write a horror story of 1000 words or less about a color. Red and black are cliche in horror, guys. Come up with something really original! SCARE ME WITHOUT RED OR BLACK. 
Daily winner.