The cold water from the shiny, curved spout pours calmly onto my hands. God, I wish I was that calm right now. I was told that I need to stop biting my lip, but I can't. I just bite and bite and bite. So now, while chewing on my lip with as much viciousness as a starving dog ripping into a steak, I try to stop trembling. My hands are shaking again, but I'm not sure if I can' stop them. The muscles in my forearms are exaggerated in their exertion, but it really isn't enough power. It was, however, enough for that.

The soap suds seamlessly slide off of my fingers. I still keep rubbing my red palms together, though; to make sure it's all gone. It all needs to be off of my hands - off of me. The dirt, the sweat, the tears, the barf, the blood - I want to wash them all off. I scrape my nails against the center of my hands. Maybe if I scratch at it, it will all go away?

I reach for the bar of generic, light blue soap, or, at least, what's left of it since I started. Back then, the little soap was so big and proud with its not eroded, sharp edges. It's so comforting yet so chilling in my grip. There's an almost blissful sensation of feeling the slippery square against my skin. It slips and it slides and it squirms, as if it's trying to get away from me using it. My fingers curl around both ends of the bar, trapping it. Silly soap. I need you now and I won't let go until I'm done.

My hands rub each other again, comforting the other appendage with little pats and small pets. My fingers work inbetween my other fingers, constantly coiling around and spreading the soap. Isn't it just fat? I remember in Chemistry class when I learned that soap was a mixture of fats and oils that cling to the very same fats and oils that you wanted off of your skin, the only difference being that they are more easily washed off afterwards. Heh, the audacity of it all is so amusing. Get rid of fat with fat? Be done with oil with oil? Fight fire with fire, I suppose.

My palms are still red. I don't recall how long I've been standing here within these four concrete walls; I don't have a watch and there's no clock. All that's here is the sink I'm standing at, hunched over the gleaming metal like a beggar huddling over a burning trash can. It feels like prison. I don't like prison.

I'd still rather take this room than the one beyond the mahogany, rotted doorway. I'm not sure I would be able to keep from throwing up again if I opened that door once more. There's a reason why I slammed it, why the hinges are almost broken and the wood cracked.

The smell curls up in my nostrils and my nose wrinkles. It's that horrible thing and my vomit and the sweat and the concrete. I hate it. The scent is so incredibly potent and sickening that it's similar to a hand reaching up my sinuses and attempting to drag it through my face. It's such a metallic, bitter smell, really. I found out that it tastes even stronger than I expected. Well, that can't be helped. I can't un-eat it. I can't un-smell it. I can't undo it.

When did I plug the drain? A while ago, obviously. The sudsy water was beginning to reach the rim of the sink. I dip my hands in the water before picking up the soap again. The suds are dirty and remind me somewhat of red strawberry hard candies mixed with chalk, such a disgusting combination. Each little bubble is a pasty, light pink sphere with microscopic pieces of soap on the surface, staring at me, staring at me with their little dirty eyes. Filthy, filthy, filthy. I realize that my hands have stopped moving, but I quickly wipe the soap across my skin.

My grimace in disdain brings a small trail of warmth down my chin. My lip is bleeding now, too. Why does this have to happen? Don't I have enough already? I take a deep breathe in and scream, opening my mouth as loud as possible before slamming my head into the sink. I end up hitting the spout, bending it to the right at a thirty two point twenty four degree angle. The soap doesn't taste very good, but I'll take it. I'll swallow it in big gulps and force it down my throat. Maybe that will help make me clean? I don't know how long my head is under the water, but because the knob that controls the water flow is broken, it overflows and pours down the upper right corner of the square rim. Eventually, my lungs burn beneath the light pink suds. Ironic, isn't it?

I don't remember when I started crying. I just begin sobbing and sputtering and coughing and wailing as soon as I'm free of the dirty water. My hands panic and scrape and claw at the insides of the sink. Finally! The soap! Exhaling a sigh of relief amongst tears, I begin washing with it again. If this soap disintegrated just like all the others, I could just take another one from right next to the sink. There was a big pile of unwrapped packages. I think I put it there, yet I'm still not sure whether it's enough or not. Oh well. I'm not leaving this room, not even to get more.

My fingers smoothen out and rub against each other happily because the soap is between them again. It's hard, though. The bar keeps slipping away, making me angrier and angrier and angrier and more frustrated and more desperate with each time I have to search for it. I wish the soap would stop moving.

"I need you," I plead with the little square. "You're not supposed to move away when I need you!"

My palms are still red.