I hate showers. It’s not because I don’t want to be clean. It’s because I remember all the blood.
Sometimes, I stare at the shower for a long time before I even go close to it. Then I’ll wipe it out and start the water. Let it run and get hot, I tell myself. It needs to be hot or you won’t get clean.
Ah, there are chores to do. No need to get in just yet. Let the water run and really clean it out. Fold your laundry. Put on some water for tea. Don’t worry about the shower.
But eventually, I have to do it. The hatred of being dirty overwhelms the fear of the shower. Sometimes, I get in and find the warm embrace of the water relaxing. It’s not as bad as I thought, and I melt into it with joy and relief.
Other times, I look down at my feet and I remember. The old sensation returns. Before my eyes, I can see my blood and scraps of my skin rushing down the drain. I itch all over again.