I perform most of the kitchen cleaning, and I'm usually the only one who disinfects it (I use bleach and 409). I threw away the dish brushes because they were filthy and discolored from who-knows-what, although it's likely it was spaghetti sauce. They were also about six months old, and plastic, which absorbs bacteria and viruses.
I put them in the garbage, and then the next day, found them magically back in the sink. So, as I was cleaning yesterday, I threw them away, again.
"Where are the brushes?" My father asks me while I'm in the other room, hanging up laundry. He's in the kitchen, presumably making dinner.
I knew this was the start of a fight. "In the garbage," I say.
He walks around the corner, and he's facing me as he's yelling, "Goddammit! You had no right to do that! I soaked those in bleach!" His face is red, and he looks threatening. (Just minutes before, he was taking his handgun out of the sleeve, and playing with it.
I asked at the time if it was loaded.
"Yes, of course," he answered then. )
I just stand there, mute. The idea crosses my mind that he could hit me, not that he has ever before. I have no emotional reaction. I finish hanging up the shirts, and then I go back to my homework in the den on the work desk.
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