Shorts

Biohazard Progenies I - the beginning

I looked down at my naked body covered in water droplets. Two babies later and countless hours of exercising, months of eating nothing but keto, and my stomach is almost flat again.

If I let my vision go blurry, I can almost remember what I looked like at twenty-five. But no point in lamenting what I gave up willingly. I may miss my body, but what would I do with it now anyway?

All I had to do was smell clean and smile at my husband, and he was ready to go like I had just bent over without underwear on. Body be damnd. It did help me feel good, though.

I turn off the water, deciding shower time is over. I listen for a second before I reach for my towel, praying my kids aren't screaming at each other or one isn't crying in pain.

Hearing nothing but the TV and my son making strange sounds that I hope has to do with him playing a game and not torturing his sister, I start to dry off.

As I step out of our tacky 70s, nail polish brownish-pink shower tub and unto our tiled flour, shades of yellow that resemble light and dark urine, I once again lament agreeing to buy this "amazing" fixer-upper my husband talked me into.

Pete had promised to make the 5000 square feet of hateful retro horror into a magnificent twenty-first-century mansion. I am not holding my breath.

At least I had been able to tear up the green shag carpet in the living room on my own. Soon I will just paint the wall panelling in the hallways and pretend it's all ok.

I cringe as I turn to the sink to brush my teeth and do my daily skincare routine.

The sink, the same nasty brownish-pink as the tub and the same colour my grandmother always painted her nails in, glares mockingly at me.

The yellow faux marble counter clashes against it, and the pink and yellow seashell wallpaper makes me glad I quit drinking years ago. This is the stuff of nightmares.

Even the white LED lights can't erase the permanent eerie yellow hue this room casts. It makes your skin always look orange.

I sit on the toilet that is the same colour as all the other porcelain pieces and wonder if I can paint the tile floor? Is that even possible?

I grab my shorts off the top of the white hamper that looks puky yellow in the light and throw on a loose t-shirt. Slipping on my bunny slippers, my kids so lovingly bought me for Christmas; I shuffle out of the horror room into the panelled hallway and head for the den.

It's the only room in the house not permanently stuck in 1973 and makes me feel a little saner just to sit in it.

Pete is sitting by the window reading the news on his phone and drinking a coffee he claims to hate from our Keurig, but one he makes religiously every morning.

Eric is already playing some crash-them and bash-them car racing game on the PS while Marda lays on the couch like a limp noodle, dramatizing how boring her life is with a look of utter weariness with the world around her and its pathetic existence. Two more year's and she'd be a teenager. Oh, the joy.

I head over to my tablet on the bookshelf to see if I have any emergency messages. I love being a Clinical Forensic Psychologist, but sometimes, especially when you take on a high-risk case, you never really leave work.

And I maybe shouldn't have taken the government job no matter how well they paid. They don't believe in weekends when it comes to their staff.

I am standing with my back to Pete, not even realizing my ass is in his face when I feel a few fingers tickle up my shorts to skim my butt. I whirl quickly and glance at the kids. They thankfully are in their own world.