Cleaner

You might call me obsessive, but I say everyone else is dirty. I start like I do every day: Scrubbing. Plucking. Brushes, both coarse and fine. Don’t want any dead skin cells left. My skin is fresh and pink as a baby’s. Still, I continue, doing a better job than ever before. The epidermis; beneath that, the dermis. Keep going, down to the hypodermis, to the muscle itself. Eventually I exit the bathroom, proud to my core. It stings, but this is me, raw. My mother gasps. My blood covers the floor in a slick sheet. Finally, no more dirt.