Hands

I remember now when I started washing my hands.

It’s as if keeping that monster to myself all this time made it hard to remember the things that changed.  The way I changed. 

I’m remembering, now.

Somehow I came to think that the cleanliness of my hands was a reflection on the purity of my soul.

The palms would start to prickle first.  Soon after, I could feel the germs crawling over my fingertips.  I wondered if anyone could see them.

I could never get the water hot enough.  There never seemed to be enough soap.  But when they were stinging and red, and finally clean, Good God it felt good.

I look at them now, and they are the hands of a much older woman.  They are heavily lined from having cracked and bled, the fingerprints have been scrubbed away.

I’ve washed them nearly a million times over the past 20 years.  Since they got dirty that day, when he raped me.

Why can’t I get them clean?

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