A Clean Room

Alex’s room was clean, yet again. The bureau was propped neatly against the wall, each drawer filled with pants or shorts. His bed was neatly made and accompanied by a nightstand he used to store all his action figures. His bookshelf was organized alphabetically, from Animalia to Zen Shorts. His closet was tightly shut, storing a plethora of shirts and sweatshirts, and even the occasional costume he’d wear when playing outside. His rug was neatly aligned to be parallel with the wall, with as much effort it took him to do. He even stacked his alphabet blocks neatly in a wicker hamper, all before going to bed.
Alex went to school, so it was my turn to play. I came out from my hiding spot in the musty attic and wreaked havoc in his room. I rewound what he did the previous night so it looked just like it did before he cleaned it, or, after I messed it up the previous time.
Alex arrived home from primary school, and entered his room. Throwing all the stuff I dumped on his bed onto the already messy floor, he flopped onto it. He knew I was there, looking down on him from the ceiling. He didn’t care though.
“I’m home!” A shrill voice called from the kitchen as his mom walks in. “Your room better be clean!” she yelled, stomping her foot on a loose threshold that snapped against the floor.
“But I did clean it mom, I swear,” Alex whimpered in a hybrid British-American accent he acquired from watching too much TV.
Alex hid under the shredded covers when his mom started stomping over to his room. The door swung open, and Alex shivered. I smiled, and sunk into the ceiling. Alex knew I was there, as he did yesterday, and the day before. His mom studied the room, her eyes getting as furious as they could with the bags under them.
“Alex Miller, I thought I said I wanted this room cleaned by the time I got home!” She yelled. “Why isn’t it clean?”
“He did it.” Alex shot a glance towards me, and I grinned. His mother continued looking at him.
“How many times do I have to tell you, He doesn’t exist? He’s just your imaginary friend. He can’t do anything. So stop using him as an excuse and take responsibility for your actions, you brat! And I want this room picked up before supper!” She slammed the door and marched out.
Alex, tears streaming down his eyes, hurried to pick up his room before supper came. He picked it up just like he always did; when he was finished, he let out a little satisfied smile that turned into a frown, for he knew I’d be doing it again soon enough. He left his room, shouting to his mom, “MA!! It’s clean! Come look! Come look!”
It took me from the time he left his room to the time he came back with his mom for me to wreck it again. Alex’s eyes became glassy as he turned around to face his mom’s wrath. He expected this to happen again. As his mom’s face grew redder, I sunk back into the ceiling, the same malicious grin on my face as I always have.