XVIII. The Girl Who Scrubbed Herself Away
Updated: Apr 2
She lived with her father in a house that smelled of disinfectant. Every surface gleamed, every mirror shined. She always wore gloves that reached past her elbows, long cotton barriers between her skin and the world. At school, she avoided contact with everyone. She refused to touch her desk or her locker before wiping it down first. The other students whispered that she thought she was better than them.
She didn’t. She just never felt clean.
The teachers eventually called her father. They told him she needed help. He didn’t take it well. To him, help meant humiliation.
That night, the house held the weight of anger he’d been nursing for hours as he waited for her to come home. I watched from the corner of the living room as he sat slumped on the couch, nursing a glass of cheap bourbon while a sports game droned on. His eyes stayed fixed on the television, but the rage beneath the surface was so thick I could taste it.
She had barely made it through the front door before the shouting started. She’d already braced herself for it, as if she’d known exactly what was waiting for her. The names he spewed at her, the threats, the condemnation behind his words—none of it was new to her. She absorbed his tirade in silence, keeping her face blank, and gave him nothing to push against.
That only made him angrier.
Next came the violence. The crash of glass as he hurled his drink to the floor. His fist slamming into the wall beside her. She flinched at each impact meant to intimidate her, to frighten her, but she kept her gaze down, even as he shouted vile insults inches from her face. Her reaction remained contained. Practiced.
It wasn’t until he grabbed her arm that she broke.
She shuddered, wrenching herself free as if the contact burned. Panic flashed across her face as she hurried to tug her glove back up her arm, pulling the fabric tight over her skin like a shield.
Whatever restraint he had left snapped.
She began struggling as soon as he grabbed her arm and forced her toward the kitchen. Her movements elevated to a wild and frenzied state when he yanked open the refrigerator door and began to pour its contents one by one onto her.
First was the leftover spaghetti. Then the soured milk. The beer, ketchup, and eggs came next. She screamed and cried and tried to break free from his grip, but his resolve was stronger.
Her father’s voice was hoarse as he shouted over her pleas, demanding for her to “be normal.”
When the refrigerator was completely empty, he pushed her into the coat closet, slamming the door behind her and wedging one of the kitchen chairs against the doorknob to keep her in. And then he left her there.
Hours passed. The TV blared from the living room. Laughter from a late-night sitcom. An infomercial about a home workout gym. Beneath the din, her screams were relentless, high-pitched, piercing wails that eventually collapsed into raw, rasping sobs.
He just increased the volume of the TV and didn't look towards the closet once.
By dawn, the house was quiet again.
Before leaving for work, he opened the closet door. She was sitting calmly on the floor, her legs and arms drawn tightly into herself.
“Did you learn your lesson?” he asked with a tone of indifference.
“Yes, Daddy," she answered quietly.
"Am I going to get another call from your teachers?"
"No, Daddy."
He nodded. “Good. Now go clean yourself up and get ready for school. You smell like shit.”
She rose slowly, walked past him in silence, and climbed the stairs one step at a time, her expression unchanged. The bathroom door shut. Water began to run.
It didn’t stop.
Hours passed. The sound of scrubbing filled the air, rhythmic and desperate. Steam fogged the mirror, then cleared again as the water turned cold. The smell of bleach mixed with blood.
When her father finally forced the door open that evening, the water was still running. She stood beneath the showerhead, motionless, her skin blistered and peeling and bloodied, her body shaking from the cold. Her eyes were too wide, staring through him, through everything.
“What the hell have you done to yourself?” he yelled, as he stared at her in horror.
She smiled faintly. “Just a few more minutes, Daddy. I'm almost clean. Almost…clean…”
He reached for her just as she collapsed. He screamed at her, shook her to wake up. The fear in his voice could have been mistaken for love.
But already, he was arranging the explanation in his mind, what he would say to the neighbors, the friends. What would keep this contained.
I had stayed with her all day, sitting in the corner of the bathroom, shielded from her sight. Fighting off the first migraine I'd had since childhood, all the while trying to convince myself it was a result of the chemicals and nothing more.
But as her father reached for his phone to dial emergency services, I stood up slowly and left the bathroom, walked down the stairs, and out into the night.
I could still hear the water running, echoing in my ears like a pulse that refused to die.
Some worlds end with blood. This one ended with bleach.
The search continues.
M.
