The False Heroine

The floor of the room squeaked as the damp rag drift on it like a raging stream. Every move was followed by a grunting sound, it sounded faint from probably exhaustion, but the swift of the cloth never faltered.

     “You missed a spot.” Abigail said. She was sat on a cushioned chair, and both of her feet were resting on a wooden crate. She even had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on her lap. She was enjoying her wish.