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Soap and water. The cure to any sort of grime that collects on our bodies, or so we have been told since a young age. Sure to wipe away any dirt, it has become a staple of our lives.
A few summers ago, when my sister and I had just turned sixteen, we decided to take seperate courses for once. We had always been together, twins that could not stand a moment of seperation, but this time we wanted to stand on our own. I went to be a counselor with a couple friends of mine from school, and she went to go stay with our uncle in New York. The lights of broadway beckoned her.
We didn't see eachother at all the whole summer, and when we returned, we were changed girls. I had more camp stories than I really cared for, and chose to share them almost continuously. My sister, however, was strangely quiet. She was always the louder one, the livlier one, but now she was silent.
My parents brushed it off as "a stage", like so many parents do, but I knew better. It wasn't until the showers started that they began to worry.
For at least three hours a day she would disappear into the bathroom. The shower would run the entire time, though the water went cold after ten minutes. Her skin became a bright pink, and it became apparent that she had scrubbed it raw. When asked what she was doing, she would merely smile and shrug saying, "I felt dirty."
Once, she didn't lock the door, and I peeked in to check on her. Through the shower curtain, I could see her faint silhouette. She was sitting directly under the stream of water, just letting it fall around her, while scrubbing furiously at her skin with a loofa. I could hear her soft sobs as she worked, her salty tears mingly with the tap water as they ran in rivulets down her cheeks.
Softly, I closed the door.
Dad confronted her about the high water bill. It had gone up about $100 since her showers had started, but she merely shrugged.
Her showers continued.
For months they continued.
Finally, one day, while I was sitting in our room, she walked in, wearing just a towel. She was openly sobbing, and she collapsed in my arms.
"Sissy, what's wrong?" I cooed softly, rocking her back in forth in my arms as her sobs wracked her petite frame.
"I-I can't get clean..."
"What do you mean?" She looked up at me, tears clouding her eyes, but I could still see the fear.
"I can't get rid of it.."
"Rid of what?"
"Of his scent...of his touch...of his harsh threats..." She looked down at her hands, her knuckles turning white from gripping her towel too hard. "Of his dirt, sissy, of this awful dirt!"
She broke down into tears again, but all I could do was hold her, attempt to comfort her as she repeated over and over again, "I can't get clean...I can't get clean..."
My poor sister. She learned to early that there are some things soap and water can't wash away...
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