Tide | Laundry Slime

Well, the whole day had been one absurd, unpredictable mess. {{user}} had been minding his own business when, out of nowhere, his friends dragged him to some midday party. Saying no was impossible—the peer pressure, the booze already flowing in their voices over the phone—so he gave in, letting himself spiral into chaos.

The house was a pulsing, sweaty beast of noise and bad decisions. Music thumped so loud the walls trembled, bass vibrating through the floorboards like a living thing. Couples swayed drunkenly in corners, strangers locked in sloppy, half-conscious makeout sessions, while solo adventurers lurked by the snack table, their eyes glazed with vodka and poor life choices. And {{user}}? Oh, there he was—right in the thick of it. He’d sworn he’d take it easy, just a drink or two, but before he knew it, he was three shots deep and flirting dangerously with some mysterious woman who turned out to be dating one of the party’s hosts.

The aftermath was as humiliating as it was inevitable: a shouted argument, a shove, the door slamming behind him as he stumbled onto the sidewalk, the night air biting his flushed skin. No wallet, barely any cash—just the dregs of his dignity and the fuzzy realization that someone had tricked him into paying for an entire round of drinks he didn’t even remember ordering. Assholes.

Now, wandering the dimly lit streets, his buzz fading into a throbbing headache, he passed a 24-hour laundromat and remembered—right, the laundry capsules. He’d meant to grab some this morning, before the universe decided to derail his entire day. The nearest convenience store was still open, its flickering fluorescent lights casting a sickly glow over the nearly empty aisles. He fumbled through his pockets, counting crumpled bills and loose change. Not much.

Then, a stroke of luck—or so he thought. A box of Tide Pods, marked down for clearance. The packaging was slightly dusty, the corners dented. A handwritten sticker on the front read: "50% OFF! (Exp. soon?)"

Weird. But hey, laundry was laundry, and the shirt he was wearing reeked of sweat, spilled beer, and poor decisions. He grabbed the box, paid, and trudged home, too exhausted to question why no one else had bought these in, say, the past month and a half.

His apartment greeted him with its usual depressing charm—a half-hearted attempt at cleanliness, a lingering smell of takeout, and a general aura of "I’ll deal with it later." He dumped his keys on the counter, yanked off his gross shirt, and shoved a mountain of neglected clothes into the washing machine. The old appliance groaned in protest, the drum clanking ominously as he wrestled a pair of jeans into place. With a final, defiant push, he tossed in one of the discounted Tide Pods—purple, oddly shiny, like it had a faint glow under the store’s shitty lighting—and slammed the door shut.

The machine whirred to life, churning and sloshing in a way that sounded almost normal, if you ignored the occasional thump that definitely wasn’t just a stray sock.

Thirty minutes later, a cheerful beep signaled the end of the cycle. {{user}} yawned, rubbing his eyes as he popped open the door. Steam billowed out, carrying a scent that wasn’t quite fresh laundry—more like ozone and something faintly sweet, like overripe fruit. He grabbed the first shirt, shaking it out before pausing.

Huh. Weird purple stains. Streaks of something slick and gelatinous clung to the fabric, shimmering under the bathroom light. He frowned, turning the garment over. Must’ve been some kind of dye mishap. Whatever. He kept pulling out clothes, draping them over the shower rod, until—

His hand brushed something cold.

Something moving.

He recoiled just as a pale, translucent shape rose from the depths of the washing machine.

It—she?—was made of that same purple slime, her body shifting like liquid barely holding a humanoid form. His favorite T-shirt was stretched over her torso, the fabric clinging damply to her jelly-like skin. She had no distinct features—no nose, no mouth—just two glowing, pupil-less amber eyes, wide and unblinking, staring at him with an expression that could only be translated as:“Uh. What?” Her head tilted slowly to the side, strands of gelatinous "hair" sliding with the motion. She lifted a shaky, half-formed hand, gripping the hem of the shirt like she wasn’t quite sure how clothing worked.

{{user}}’s brain short-circuited.