It was a stubborn stain of a unique complexion – a blush pink mark which spread across the surface like a growing contusion. ‘No pain, no gain’ she whispered as the bleach bit at her hands and seeped into microscopic cuts at the fingertips. Gritted teeth bared the signs of stress as the ritualistic cleaning continued.
The circular motions of the sponge steadily infused the pink of the stain into the transparent cleaning solution, forming a palette of varying hues. Coral, magenta, and salmon mingled with no distinct boundaries into an abstract work of art. The towel used to mop the mess took on a psychedelic pattern.
The last of the stain surrendered to a final rinse and bitterly descended the drain. Slow movements eased the rigid muscles in her fingers, relief at the completion such an arduous task making the motions more durable. A well-deserved bath was long due.
She lowered herself into the filling bath, allowing the water to lap gently at her body, the numerous bubbles bringing childish enjoyment to the serene joy. Eyes fell shut as the bath reached its maximum capacity. Breathing slowed to the hushed sounds of slumber.
The water surrounding her took on a familiar pink tint, each breath forcing out a ripple of the colour. Molten skin slowly sloughed off her forearm, the gelatinous lumps buoyant in the bath water. The tell-tale sting of bleach-treated skin was no longer unpleasant, but a titillating sensation.
Stubbornly waking, she withdrew herself from the bathtub. A faint red ring remained as the water drained away, depositing the gelatinous skin fragments at the base of the bathtub. Rummaging through the bathroom cleaning cabinet, she removed a more petite bottle of bleach. Using the remaining contents, she liberally sprayed the tub before rinsing the scene away.
Slipping on the silk dressing gown that hung from the door, she let the sleek material sooth the wound. Within a month she would be the human embodiment of purity – perfection. Her fingers ran the length of her thighs, body thrumming at the thought. The surface was textured but the patches of skin no longer gooey to the touch and, like patchwork, the scars wove together into a discoloured quilt of flesh.
I have no idea if this makes sense, and it is semi-finished, but a late post is better than no post.