They stare all day.
But they stare so much more in my nightmares.
No matter how many times I slink off to the doctors when my family aren’t watching, nothing can convince me I’m clean. No matter how many times a day I change my underwear, or brush my teeth, or wash my hands, I shake with the knowledge that germs crawl on my skin.
I’ve been made disgusting, and I can’t live with the filth anymore.
I pass through the living room and stop in my kitchen. I’m not thirsty. I haven’t been hungry in months. I haven’t feltanythingexcept uncleanliness since Angelo Alesi dragged me out of a burning club and tossed me into a waiting ambulance.
They whisked me off to the hospital, ran tests, and asked me a thousand times if I was okay, but no one knew my secrets. Not really. The doctors made sure I wasn’t suffering from smoke inhalation or burns from the fire, then I was released. And that was that.
Everyone was so consumed with the death of Jess’ boyfriend and all of her grief, I was simply shuffled aside.
I’ve snuck off to my local doctor a hundred times since last November. I pleaded for a way to feel clean again. Bleach baths didn’t work. Disinfectant in place of face wash didn’t work. Nothing would work.
So I begged my doctor.
And still, my skin itches.
My nails have been chewed to the quick. I tossed away just about every piece of clothing I’ve worn since being in a relationship with Graham. But we were together for two years, which means I had to throw everything except my prom dress away.
I’ve lived almost exclusively in my brother’s sweatpants for months. And the few times I’ve had to leave the apartment, I wore Jess’ clothes.
Because she’s not sullied.
She’s not dirty.
And she’s not broken.
I turn away from the clock hanging on the wall. The loud tick… tock… tick… tock… reminds me I’m wasting time.
Well…
Wasting timeisn’t accurate; I have all the time in the world. I have nowhere I need to be. Nowhere I want to go. I’m just me, by myself, all alone, with an indefinite leave of absence granted by the school I teach at.
Procrastinatingis what I’m doing.
I’m procrastinating, because I’m scared. I’m so unbelievably scared that my hands shake. But I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how else to stop the itch, the dirtiness, the curdling in my stomach three minutes after I step out of the shower.
Before I lose my nerve, I stop at the kitchen counter and snatch up what I need, then I continue into the hallway.
Three bedrooms; mine, Kari’s, and Jess’. One single bathroom. One toilet.
I pass my room and find it as sanitized and boring as the rest of the apartment. No matter how many times I’ve cleaned it, it’s still dirty.
So fucking dirty.
I pass Jess’ room, and though it’s not quite as sterile as mine, it’s not truly messy, either.
I step into the spotless black and white bathroom at the end of the hall, and stare into a mirror that is void of a single toothpaste splatter. I can’t get my body clean, so I make sure my home is. I try. I try so fucking hard, and yet, I look down at the sink and contemplate washing my hands.
It’s silly, considering my plans.
Considering the problem will be gone in just a minute.
But my hands shake anyway.
The cellphone in my left hand vibrates. The call must’ve cut out, because Graham’s name flashes again. He demands I answer. He fuckingdemandsit.