Rinse and Repeat
He washes from cleanest to direst making sure to scrub hard- very hard – but it's hard because he can't be sure what part of him is the most unclean. His face seems calm, but frustration is peeking out from underneath – frustration and fear. He scrubs harder at invisible stains that won't fade and smells that linger – musk, seat, blood; familiar impurities. The worse are the phantom hands, the feeling of hands he's seen a million times, but not like that. Never like that.
His eyes cloud and the corner of his mouth begins to quirk like he might cry or scream – or spit. He wants to spit because he can taste it in his mouth and suddenly he jerks, stares at his hands like he can't believe their treachery. He thinks maybe he's rubbing it deeper into his skin, but he doesn't know what else to do and if – Abruptly he rinses off and begins to lather again.
He seems angry now, but his eyes look scare – he's trembling. It's nothing new – it's happen before – not for a long time sure, but still no reason to get upset. (But he is and he won't admit why.) After all he couldn't really complain this had to have been the gentlest encounter he's ever had to suffer through. His face harshens as a hiss escapes his lips; the suds burn – he attempts to mentally switch tracks, he is only partly successful – 'that'll be there for a while' – it's easier to think objectively, to disassociate from the situation- even after the soreness leaches away into numbness and phantom terrors. That rawness will claw at his mind, especially when he- he has to- He sighs exasperated, even his thoughts are betraying him now.
Carefully, too carefully he turns the shower knob to the left, but the water is as hot as it's going to be. It's scalding, searing, boiling, but the water doesn't seem to be having the desired effect. He doesn't seem to realize any definite change in the stickiness he perceives to be coating his thighs and slowly, sickly clotting inside the obscenely gaping hole where his anus should be. He can feel the unnatural space there and the nausea that hits him is astonishing. Tears prick his eyes; it seem ever part of his anatomy seeks to betray him.
With effort he swallows it, and feels a bitter pride – bitter because as undignified as vomiting now would be it's nothing compared to the whimpers he couldn't swallow. He jerks as though to avoid a collision with memory's touch and aggravates the blistering gradually covering him. It hurts, but it helps. He's playing a dangerous balancing game now – standing between the pain of memory and the pain he is inflicting on himself. He calms – on the surface; underneath the thoughts he won't admit nestle amid his innards like parasites – like bastards he can't abort.
Parasites he can't rid himself of that've been kissed and moaned and bitten into his body under the traitorous skin that's coming off now. He stands still then clutching the soap in his left hand and staring at his right arm. Absently his mind notes that the bar was a lot bigger when he started. He wanders what time it is. "It'll grow back." It'll grow back and no one will ever know. Hell he could walk out there now and all anyone would think is that his daily transit from hell was a little rough today.
Even if it penetrated their empty little heads they wouldn't care – it'd be a joke and everyone would laugh maybe even him. Yeah 'cause it's funny; it's a punch line – 'the ass kisser taking it up the ass'. That's one hell of a punch line like a fist in the gut. And it feels like hysteria rising up his throat, clawing at the last of his reserves, he can't breathe past it, but it'll be okay they'll never know, never guess – nevereverever-
He stands bent over awkwardly one hand pressed flat against the wall the other clutching the soap in a death grip. He is perhaps impassively watching the vomit he has expelled slowly, but inexorently swirling down the drain. From the way he stares an outside observer would think him fascinated. There are no observers however because there are no windows and the lights are dim. He is the only one here and hopes it stays that way. He isn't fascinated more like disgusted.
He thinks "this is disgusting", he thinks "how did I choke it all down" – the vomit is milky, butter cream in color – the greater part is semen. His calves are spattered with it and he remembers his thigh were spattered with semen some of it his. His pants are ruined, but luckily the stains don't show otherwise he never would have gotten out of there. He thinks, and his stomach spasms with distaste, he thinks "I got off; so then I must have like, must have wanted it".
He remembers the names, the curses whispered like endearments and he thinks that must be true – therefore he is a slut, a whore, a cunt without tits. The vomit spatter is losing to gravity; the slow crawling spurs him to motion. Spur him to motion because it's become a compulsion to rinse and then frantically soap up with lots of lather, lots and lots of lather before scrubbing again.
It's a stop-gap measure he knows that, but he needs to do it 'cause it's simple, safe, and best of all it means not thinking about anything. It means not thinking about how he isn't gay or bisexual and never has been. Or how dim rooms with the blinds closed or dusty isolated spots freak him out 'cause under the silence he can hear a radio turned low, skin on skin, feel a tongue like a monstrous slug in his ear as it's whispered just how good he feels. No, the shower's running safe and warm and it's almost a curtain between him and remembering his pants around his legs or every scratch and nick on that blasted teak wood desk or the shock of hearing his own flesh tearing apart – a sound like soaked velvet being raggedly pulled apart as he's choked with his own tie – a gift from his mother before she died.
"Fuck." And it's a pray, an entreaty, a sob. He's curled in the corner of the shower now still going through the motions, but the curtain has been torn away. Some part of his mind really does hate him 'cause it won't shut. Why can't he just rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat rinse and repeatrinseandrepeatrinseandrepeat rinse and fucking repeat 'til it hurts 'til it stops hurting 'til this, whatever the hell this is goes away like a good little inner demon.
Why can't he stop? Please stop lathering, stop washing, stop rinsing, stop hurting himself like this, but he won't 'til someone comes, someone comes and he can't tell who 'cause that might just be soap in his eyes – 'cept it's salty like tears, like blood, like skin and sweat and jizzum. His ears hurt and it might be because he's screaming or because they're screaming something about ambulances and second degree burns and they've got his arms held tightly 'cause he's making it worse, making himself bleed and he thinks "God help me, I can't stop". But maybe he said it out loud because they're trying to assure him he can.
But they're wrong 'cause he can't – he can't break the mantra of rinse and repeat even through the water's off and the air is hitting him like the cold, hard truth. So hard he can't breathe even if he wanted to. Sobbing doesn't help – sobbing like his heart's breaking sobbing like a lost child. The façade he's spent so long building and was trying so hard to shore up is coming apart at the seams; has come undone. Just like that –because of a little rocking and someone whispering damn near crooning it'll be alright – crooning to him like he's some kind of frightened animal that might bite – and maybe he will at the rate he's going.
And now he's laughing 'cause on top of wanting to rinse and repeat he can't stop crying. Can't do a damn thing for himself, but he's fighting, fighting to rinse and repeat as long as he can maybe 'til they load him up and cart him away all quiet and still and in shock – 'profound shock' mind you – in the nice clean ambulance. He's got to wash now, got to get clean, got to stay as sane as he can 'cause he won't be able to later, won't be able to distance himself and keep it all together later. Not when they're loading him up with every looky-loo in the station watching and he sees Him watching and that son of a bitch winks.
Winks and the dam breaks, the demons awake – start to eat him alive and from a lifetime away he realizes he is screaming; even worse some part of him is pretty sure he'll never, ever stop.
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Well, that's it although I have one more thing to say... How is it I can have better then a hundred hits on this thing and no reviews? I'm not a review whore looking for tons of meaningless reviews, but I have to wonder at least a little bit. I mean is the work good, is it bad? What did it mean to you? I don't know and yet people seem to be reading it... Oh, well that's all.