She washed me until the bathwater turned cold, but I didn’t feel clean. I felt like we shared the same water, but she knelt next to the bathtub, beside me, separated by a tiled wall. I looked at her when she was washing me, her eyes looked big, her breathing was heavy and I felt absent in her presence. She took care of me and that’s why it took so long to wash me, make me clean, there’s so much to clean she always said. I was sore and didn’t understand why my hair was left untouched.
I stepped out of the bathtub and into the towel that she stretched out in front of me. Towels take my arms away. I took my own arms away before rushing towards the towel because I learned it this way. She rubbed me dry and didn’t notice my hair. She held me close to her so I’d dry faster and better. I sat on her lap, held by her arms. My skin glued together, my armpits were itchy. Let some air in, let your body breathe a bit, her hands were not taken away.
You still have that rash, I will take care of that once you’re dry. I just wanted to tell her that my hair is still dirty, but it wasn’t the first time and I just needed to let her treat my rash again. I felt the heat of her body on my spine, her fingers examining my rash. I was dry. I had been dry for a while. I just wanted my arms back.
When we walked to my bedroom, I was free to move, I took charge of the towel and tightened it around me and under my arms. I didn’t feel the weight of her. For a moment, I was alone. She held out her arm and I gave her the towel back and she pressed it against her chest as if it were a piece of me that she wanted to mourn. I knew that she couldn’t see my rash properly if I didn’t lie down and open up. I made myself lie down and open up. I didn’t want her to say it, repeat it. She took her time looking for the ointment and when she came closer and looked at me, her face was changed again.
I don’t know who was in that room with me when she looked like that. I remember her facial expressions, but I didn’t understand them. I just knew that the treatment of my rash made her feel good. Let me take good care of you. She used her fingers and her mouth. Like animals do, you see. Everything took so long. It was as if this was the most important thing in the world for her. To be alone with my rash. For me to have a rash in the first place. That she had and was the cure. I could feel her teeth and blurted out that I really needed to pee. You will hold it, I need the ointment to reach the right spot. I felt myself turn acidic on her tongue.
I felt my eyes starting to tear up, but I shut myself down. I didn’t want to hear her. I wanted her to sound dead. I wanted her head to die on me. I wanted her face to die right in front of me. I wanted her to be poisoned by the ointment, by my rash, by her compulsive need to take care of me. Come back here, stop being tense, the ointment won’t work if you don’t relax. She caught the glimpse of a tear that I couldn’t wipe away in time, I knew this would happen again, I knew that I should have tried harder, this could have gone so smoothly, but it was too late, she saw it. It broke the spell for her that her care doesn’t make me feel good or better and she wiped her mouth saying you will get the pillow again.
Croque-Melpomene 