My hands are raw, and the skin around my nails is already split, but still I persist. The lingering dirt—already cleaned—continues to assault my eyes. The sound of the forever-running faucet fills the room, steady and relentless. I don't remember when I stopped turning it off. The grating echo remains a thin shield against everything else I refuse to hear. The noise keeps everything contained, even as it wears me down.
With no intent to use it, I step into the shower. I let the water run again, watching it strike the tiles and slide down the drain, disappearing from me. Nothing goes with it. Again and again, nothing gets taken away. Dropping to my knees, I search desperately for something wrong—something dirty to be whisked away. Surely there must have been a step I skipped, a particle that I missed.
Again and again, there is nothing. No matter how much I want there to be. My legs finally give out beneath me. The tiles are cold and slick against my skin. I linger against them longer than I should. My hands begin to ache—or maybe they've been aching; my shoulders burn, but stopping feels worse than the strain. This effort is becoming proof. Of commitment. Of care. Of something I still owe. But who? who do I owe it to? The thought presses in, attacking my already thin shield, signaling my fingers to drift towards the handle without fully meaning to. Just for a moment, I think about how peaceful it could be. How would the room sound without the water filling every corner? As soon as the thought fully passes through my mind, it unsettles me enough that I recoil, continuing to let the water run.
I step out of the shower, soaked through, my body heavy, and my limbs slow to respond. I pause to catch my breath as though I've been holding it in for far too long. Whatever the noise was keeping at bay clings to me now. The water slides off my body, taking everything with it. I lift my head, meeting myself in the mirror. The remaining water beads along my skin, clinging where it can, tracing lines I no longer recognize. I look exhausted—hollowed out by effort, by waiting, by belief that endurance could substitute for change. Was there even anything wrong with me that soap or water could have fixed? I understand it now. There was never anything left to clean. There hasn't been for a long time. I turn off the faucet—no more shield. I turn off the shower—no more running away.
When I look at the sink, I see how it shines, the porcelain counter is smooth and bright, exactly as it's always been, waiting for me to notice, I see you. And finally, I see myself.