I've had second thoughts about putting this story on here, mainly because it doesn't really have a point other than being disturbing, just me trying to work on my narrative. Loosely inspired on Lady Macbeth's sleepwalking. I also noticed I have a weird thing for writing about bathrooms, I just don't seem to be able to keep my characters out of them. Maybe that's the next thing I should work on. Or maybe writing happy endings... Ok, just rambling now. I hope you... uhm... I don't know, won't be too freaked out by this. Reviews are always welcome.

Maybe just a little too pristine.

The bathroom was white, sterile. It smelled like toothpaste, near the sink, and like shampoo, near the shower, but mostly, it smelled of bleach. There was no bath, the shower curtains were blue (with little dolphins on them) and a small, silver cross hung next to the mirror. The only thing that indicated that something might be... out of the ordinary, was the silence. Complete and utter silence. And maybe things were just a little too pristine.

There was the girl, of course, standing in the middle of the room, staring at her bloody hands, but that wasn't anything out of the ordinary, it seemed almost like a custom in this particular bathroom. It happened every single time she - no - let's not spoil the fun by telling you what happened.

She looked at the blood as if it were a mildly interesting book, she didn't seem at all upset about having someone else's haemoglobin on her fingers. "Hmmm...?" she asked her palms, alternately turning her hands and her head. To left, to the right. Watching the way the light from the tiny, high window reflected off the ruby red coating on her skin.

At first, it was like she had molasses on her hands; the thickness of the substance, how it would almost make threads as she separated her fingers, then put them back together again in some alien way of saying hello.

"Greetings, Earthling," She told her own reflection before dangling her wrists and watching them in the mirror, instead of looking at them directly. Still all remote, like she wasn't even really here, merely observing some other girl she had absolutely no feelings for.

A few scarlet beads trickled down her left forearm (which she was still holding up) and she caught them with her other hand before they even started falling to the ground. She wouldn't want to let a single drop hit the floor, and spoil all her hard work of making sure this place stayed clean! Just like she had tried, and succeeded, so hard to keep her face and her clothes free of incriminating stains.

Frowning, she examined her nails closely, disappointed at the fading colour, the drying blood, slowly turning from crimson to the brown of leaves in autumn. She made a fist, clenched it and, after a few seconds, opened it again. The layer of lifeless lacquer had cracked, like land during drought. What a waste. All brown. All dead. Pointless.

Suddenly, the girl moved into action. With two long, confident strides, she reached the sink. Her heels clicking on the tiles, the sound of the clicking rebounding off the walls.

Almost systematically, she started the preparations for cleansing her contaminated body parts. Like I said, this wasn't the first time she ever did this; she knew what she was doing, you know. She turned on the tap and let the water run. Cold water, of course, use cold water on blood. Always. Otherwise it would cake, cake even more than it was already doing. And she really wouldn't want that to happen.

She hit the soap dispenser and a jet of soap shot out. Mmm, camomile. Using the nailbrush, she scrubbed. Scrubbed her skin until it was red again. Red, raw and cold, but completely spotless. Admiring her work from a distance, holding her hands out in front of her, she nodded approvingly: perfect. The water had been left running, to wash away the last traces of human life from the sink.

The towel she had used was already in her hand, her other hand on the door handle, ready to go down to the laundry room and wash that too, when she noticed. The tiniest little spot, reddish brown, on the floor.

Her eyes went wide, the towel was thrown over her shoulder within a second and she dropped to her knees, in front of the spot. She hung over it, her face only inches away from the dirty tile. It looked like she wanted to touch it – she surely extended both her index fingers at it – but she hesitated last minute, like she was only thinking it was a drop of blood, but that it was in fact a dead spider, cockroach or something even filthier.

"Get out!" She yelled, out of the blue, her expression one of shock and horror . She scrambled up and reached for a bottle of bleach, almost frantically. "Out! Out! Out!" Somehow, the towel managed to find its way back to her. She picked it up and turned the bottle of bleach upside down over it. The bleach soaked not only the cloth, but her hands as well. She didn't seem to notice her skin changing colour again.

"Out, you blasted - !" Her face set, her teeth clenched, she gave Cinderella a run for her money. "OOOOUT!" She shrieked one last time, sending the ruined towel flying across the room. The spot had been gone for nearly five minutes already, by that time, but she wasn't settling for anything less bacteria-free than an operating room.

The non-spot finally caught her eye. "Good. Good..." Was all she said as her breath evened out. The distant look returned on her face, she took up the towel and simply left, carefully closing the door behind her.

The bathroom she left was white, sterile and maybe just a little too pristine.

The End