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Description
My entire existence revolved around a single bar of soap, counting to fifteen, taking a breath, twenty, a breath, and then twenty five, letting out the lungful of harmful air from my body.
I picked absently at the cracks in my knuckles, smelling the cloying aroma of Clorox floating through my home. There wasn’t a way I could stop my thoughts as they raced through counting the number of times I pick at my arms, my hands, my scars. Suddenly, my boyfriend placed his pale lips on my bare shoulder, bringing my rigid hands apart with his forgiving, gentle grip.
“Destin,”
“Avery,” I mumbled in response, jerking my hands back to picking at the scars, knowing I was at seventeen and he had stopped me. I started again, sighing hard and taking in a breath as I bit my lip, knowing counting to fifteen a lungful of contaminated air was always the hardest. I hadn’t even noticed the blood pooling in my lap.
“Destin, I’m serious. Please stop so I can bandage your hands.”
I let my breath out hard, feeling my chest tightening from not being able to rid myself of this…disease. “No, let me get to twenty five. Just-“ He circled around the couch and looked deep into the bruises under my eyes rather than my irises. My dull, ugly, imperfect, unclean, filthy-
“Understand something.” He brought my bleeding hands up to his lips, letting his light pink petals glide across my bloodied hand’s faces. “I want you to be happy, and I want you to feel clean.”
“Twenty five makes me feel fucking clean.” I pulled my hands back again, and started all over again.
Avery sighed hard and sat down beside me, grabbing the bandages from the table. “Finish up, then we’ll bandage your clean hands, alright?”
“Thank you.”
I picked twenty five times, letting out a thankful breath at every interval, instantly feeling better. It was then I noticed just how torn up and wounded my hands were. Gasping under my breath, I remembered how to let myself cry. The tears burned my scabs and reopened scars, but it felt clean. Nothing could hurt me.
“Destin,” Avery said slowly and sadly, gradually unraveling the bandages. “Please give me your hands. I have washed as well.”
Shamefacedly I gave him my hands, taking my gaze away from the mess I’d made. The memorable sting of rubbing alcohol slid into my open sores with ease, making my soul feel cleansed and pure. Like a child, being baptized in his mother’s blood for the last time. Relief washed through me, with Avery’s palms working softly at my damaged hands. I felt complete.
“There,”
It was like I had fallen asleep to the consoling and familiar sensation of alcohol in my veins.
It was like Avery healed my pain.
I leaned forward to kiss him, our lips meeting, unpuckered. Unloving.
Clean.

Description
My entire existence revolved around a single bar of soap, counting to fifteen, taking a breath, twenty, a breath, and then twenty five, letting out the lungful of harmful air from my body.
I picked absently at the cracks in my knuckles, smelling the cloying aroma of Clorox floating through my home. There wasn’t a way I could stop my thoughts as they raced through counting the number of times I pick at my arms, my hands, my scars. Suddenly, my boyfriend placed his pale lips on my bare shoulder, bringing my rigid hands apart with his forgiving, gentle grip.
“Destin,”
“Avery,” I mumbled in response, jerking my hands back to picking at the scars, knowing I was at seventeen and he had stopped me. I started again, sighing hard and taking in a breath as I bit my lip, knowing counting to fifteen a lungful of contaminated air was always the hardest. I hadn’t even noticed the blood pooling in my lap.
“Destin, I’m serious. Please stop so I can bandage your hands.”
I let my breath out hard, feeling my chest tightening from not being able to rid myself of this…disease. “No, let me get to twenty five. Just-“ He circled around the couch and looked deep into the bruises under my eyes rather than my irises. My dull, ugly, imperfect, unclean, filthy-
“Understand something.” He brought my bleeding hands up to his lips, letting his light pink petals glide across my bloodied hand’s faces. “I want you to be happy, and I want you to feel clean.”
“Twenty five makes me feel fucking clean.” I pulled my hands back again, and started all over again.
Avery sighed hard and sat down beside me, grabbing the bandages from the table. “Finish up, then we’ll bandage your clean hands, alright?”
“Thank you.”
I picked twenty five times, letting out a thankful breath at every interval, instantly feeling better. It was then I noticed just how torn up and wounded my hands were. Gasping under my breath, I remembered how to let myself cry. The tears burned my scabs and reopened scars, but it felt clean. Nothing could hurt me.
“Destin,” Avery said slowly and sadly, gradually unraveling the bandages. “Please give me your hands. I have washed as well.”
Shamefacedly I gave him my hands, taking my gaze away from the mess I’d made. The memorable sting of rubbing alcohol slid into my open sores with ease, making my soul feel cleansed and pure. Like a child, being baptized in his mother’s blood for the last time. Relief washed through me, with Avery’s palms working softly at my damaged hands. I felt complete.
“There,”
It was like I had fallen asleep to the consoling and familiar sensation of alcohol in my veins.
It was like Avery healed my pain.
I leaned forward to kiss him, our lips meeting, unpuckered. Unloving.
Clean.