Categories > Original > Drama
Filth in the beauty
It was the middle of the night, and he heard the shower turn on in the bathroom. He laid there on the bed, completely awake, listening to the sound of the water falling. He had woken up when she had left the bed. It was dark, and he could barely see the hands of the clock. Three minutes to midnight. It was her sixth shower today.
The water was too hot. It left her skin red, and if she’d made it any hotter, it would’ve probably left burns on her skin. But she didn’t care, as she poured far too much soap on the sponge and started to scrub her skin harshly. It wasn’t helping.
The filth wasn’t just on the outside. It was everywhere.
She felt it crawling on her skin like tiny bugs, it was seeping out through her pores, it filled her lungs, her heart, her mind, until she felt dirty through and through. Tears mixed with the water from the shower and her mouth twisted to a scowl when she rubbed the sponge everywhere on her skin as hard as she could, trying to wash away that feeling.
But whatever she did, it didn’t go. She could still feel the touch, those filthy hands wrapping around her throat, gripping on her hair and pulling, twisting her arms down so she wouldn’t fight. The feeling of a tongue as it invaded her mouth, the taste of blood when she bit, the pain of the hand colliding with her cheek.
Filth. She was full of it. They had made sure of it.
She couldn’t bare to be touched anymore. She wasn’t the kind of person to open up too easily, so she carried the burden, not sharing it with the one person who saw her pain.
It was obvious she was hurting. She’d flinch away when he tried to touch her, cower away when he even so much as spoke to her. When they watched a movie, she sat as far away from him as possible. Nothing brought joy to her anymore. The things she had previously enjoyed didn’t even bring a smile on her face. Even food tasted like sand, and she had to force it down her throat.
For thirty minutes he listened to the water fall on the shower floor. How long had this been going on? A week? Two? She didn’t sleep, she didn’t eat, she didn’t speak. She was a ghost of herself.
The water finally turned off, and the scent of cherry blossoms filled the bedroom when she entered it. Her hair was still dripping wet, but she had put on a new set of clothes. She laid down on the bed, on the very far end.
He laid, facing her, and her back was turned to him. The distance couldn’t have been more than a meter, but it felt like a million light-years. This wasn’t just eating away her soul, it was destroying what they had. If he tried to wrap his arms around her while in bed, she’d simply leave and watch TV for the rest of the night. Or shower. As if she could fix the bad feeling by showering. As if she could wash it away. As if desperately trying to hold on to the belief that somehow, a simple shower was all it took. That the broken could be fixed as easily as it had been shattered to pieces.
The worst part was that she didn’t speak about it. For weeks she went like this with no explanation. Simply pushed him away, oftentimes pretending he wasn’t even there, pretended no one else existed so that she could sit naked on the shower floor, praying for something to make everything better.
So there they were. Two figures, laying on the bed in the dark room. He stared at her back and the dark strands of hair that wet the sheets and the pillow. She was perfectly still, but he knew that she wasn’t asleep. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew they were open and vacant, staring at something in the darkness.
He feared that words would only make her worse, but he had to know. He just had to know.
“Were you raped?”
Those three words were followed by silence, and then, he saw her move. Her head turned, and for the first time in weeks he looked at him in the eyes. Hers were hollow, empty, vacant, when they used to be filled with life. And blinded by her tears, she rolled over, reached for him, and he held her. He felt her shoulders shake under his arms, felt the tears wet the fabric of his shirt, felt her nails dig into his skin as she held onto him as if her life depended on it.
And he cried, too, something he never did. Because he knew something was lost, and there was something that would never leave. It would always be there, a stain.
The filth would never wash away.
It was the middle of the night, and he heard the shower turn on in the bathroom. He laid there on the bed, completely awake, listening to the sound of the water falling. He had woken up when she had left the bed. It was dark, and he could barely see the hands of the clock. Three minutes to midnight. It was her sixth shower today.
The water was too hot. It left her skin red, and if she’d made it any hotter, it would’ve probably left burns on her skin. But she didn’t care, as she poured far too much soap on the sponge and started to scrub her skin harshly. It wasn’t helping.
The filth wasn’t just on the outside. It was everywhere.
She felt it crawling on her skin like tiny bugs, it was seeping out through her pores, it filled her lungs, her heart, her mind, until she felt dirty through and through. Tears mixed with the water from the shower and her mouth twisted to a scowl when she rubbed the sponge everywhere on her skin as hard as she could, trying to wash away that feeling.
But whatever she did, it didn’t go. She could still feel the touch, those filthy hands wrapping around her throat, gripping on her hair and pulling, twisting her arms down so she wouldn’t fight. The feeling of a tongue as it invaded her mouth, the taste of blood when she bit, the pain of the hand colliding with her cheek.
Filth. She was full of it. They had made sure of it.
She couldn’t bare to be touched anymore. She wasn’t the kind of person to open up too easily, so she carried the burden, not sharing it with the one person who saw her pain.
It was obvious she was hurting. She’d flinch away when he tried to touch her, cower away when he even so much as spoke to her. When they watched a movie, she sat as far away from him as possible. Nothing brought joy to her anymore. The things she had previously enjoyed didn’t even bring a smile on her face. Even food tasted like sand, and she had to force it down her throat.
For thirty minutes he listened to the water fall on the shower floor. How long had this been going on? A week? Two? She didn’t sleep, she didn’t eat, she didn’t speak. She was a ghost of herself.
The water finally turned off, and the scent of cherry blossoms filled the bedroom when she entered it. Her hair was still dripping wet, but she had put on a new set of clothes. She laid down on the bed, on the very far end.
He laid, facing her, and her back was turned to him. The distance couldn’t have been more than a meter, but it felt like a million light-years. This wasn’t just eating away her soul, it was destroying what they had. If he tried to wrap his arms around her while in bed, she’d simply leave and watch TV for the rest of the night. Or shower. As if she could fix the bad feeling by showering. As if she could wash it away. As if desperately trying to hold on to the belief that somehow, a simple shower was all it took. That the broken could be fixed as easily as it had been shattered to pieces.
The worst part was that she didn’t speak about it. For weeks she went like this with no explanation. Simply pushed him away, oftentimes pretending he wasn’t even there, pretended no one else existed so that she could sit naked on the shower floor, praying for something to make everything better.
So there they were. Two figures, laying on the bed in the dark room. He stared at her back and the dark strands of hair that wet the sheets and the pillow. She was perfectly still, but he knew that she wasn’t asleep. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew they were open and vacant, staring at something in the darkness.
He feared that words would only make her worse, but he had to know. He just had to know.
“Were you raped?”
Those three words were followed by silence, and then, he saw her move. Her head turned, and for the first time in weeks he looked at him in the eyes. Hers were hollow, empty, vacant, when they used to be filled with life. And blinded by her tears, she rolled over, reached for him, and he held her. He felt her shoulders shake under his arms, felt the tears wet the fabric of his shirt, felt her nails dig into his skin as she held onto him as if her life depended on it.
And he cried, too, something he never did. Because he knew something was lost, and there was something that would never leave. It would always be there, a stain.
The filth would never wash away.
Sign up to rate and review this story