Shame

I crouch over the sink and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Maybe I just have to figure out the magic word. Stop. Off. End. Halt. Cease. Shut down. Please? Nothing happens. Nothing ever happens when I want it to.

I straighten up and reach for the cloudy faucets. I plug the sink so that the water can’t escape. The icy torrent splashing into the grimy bowl gradually reaches an uncomfortable lukewarm temperature. I use it to wash my face. I start slow, rubbing soapy circles into my cheeks. Then the rubbing gets harder. And faster. And rougher. I’m rubbing my face raw. I rub and I rub and I rub and I rub. Scratch, too. Constant, throbbing stinging follows momentary coolness. It feels good, actually. It feels deserved.

I look up from my self-inflicted punishment. The mirror reflects a splotchy, red face and two brown eyes brimming with water. No wait, it’s not water. They’re tears. Seeing them in my eyes startles me. It brings more of what I’m trying to rub away.
I feel his hands. I can’t stop feeling them. They touch me in all the wrong places with all the wrong tenderness. They rub. They caress. They grope. They take. I hate those hands. They pretend to be friendly. They pretend to be older and mature. But they’re just like any other hands—sick and self-satisfying. I can’t stop feeling them. They won’t go away.

I rub my face harder. I had lost feeling in my cheeks minutes ago. Still I can’t get it off. It’s still there. I rub and I rub and I rub and I rub. It won’t get off! It’s on me like a black stain. I can smell it on me. It smells like burning clothes. Sickening, sweet, revolting, intoxicating. I can still smell it on me and I can’t get it off. I can still smell it on me and I can’t get it off. I can’t get it off. I rub and I rub and I rub and I rub.
His lips press themselves on mine. I taste cigarettes and cheese as he shoves his tongue in my mouth. I writhe. He sucks. I push. He consumes. I choke back vomit. He sticks his tongue in further.

I’m at my forehead now. I’m scratching it with my nails. I see a little bit of blood. I rub and scratch harder. It’s on my forehead too. It won’t come off. Stubborn. I rub and I rub and I rub and I rub. The lukewarm water is still splashing into the bowl. It begins to overflow. Lukewarm water all over my legs, all over my feet.

I can’t get him off of me. I’m pinned down underneath him and I can’t get him off. He’s too heavy. I’m too weak. He pins down my arms. My body and legs are trapped under him. He grabs my shirt and rips it off. Ow, it hurt me. My arms are probably red now. He keeps pressing himself against me. I can’t breathe. I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped.

I use both hands for my chin. I scrape, scrape, scrape at it. Rub it and scrape it and rub it. It’s sensitive. Good. I scratch it harder. I scratch till I see it. Ah, there it is. Red. It mixes with the soap and water and drips down my chin. My white shirt is red. The off-white bowl is now brown. Lukewarm water all over my legs, all over my feet.

I’m naked now. He puts a big sweaty hand over my mouth to cover my scream. He’s in. He keeps coming in. I want him out, but he rams in. Harder. Harder. God, it hurts. It hurts so bad. He won’t stop. I scream into his big sweaty hand, but he won’t stop.

There, I’m done washing. I look into the mirror. I scream. I see raw red face. But that is not what scares me. I stare into the brown eyes in the reflection. The brown eyes that are brimming with not-water. I shove myself into the bathroom corner. I couldn’t get it off. I tried and I tried but I couldn’t get it off. I cry and I cry and I cry and I cry. Lukewarm water all over my legs, all over my feet.