Sweet tune ( karlnap )

Mould

I really want to pour my heart out with this chapter; This is Wilbur's POV (Yes, i'm aware he's a shitty person, i'm talking about the character in MY story, not William Patrick Gold. I've already discussed this in past chapters :v ) And i've decided to use this character to depict a strong image of what OCD may look like. I personally do not suffer from it, but I do have severe anxiety and OCD traits, so I can imagine what it may look like. I'm curious to know if i did a good job, and I'd appreciate your input on this, so i can make this as accurate as possible.
This chapter may be a little bit strong for some of you, so here's some possible TWs:
Talks about grief, death, vomit, panic attacks.

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I had never seen death.
I grew ignorant of it as it was only narrated by soft words and small stories, soldiers dying in the Great War, grandparents I was too young to meet, cousins taken away too soon.
But I never touched it, i never felt it tight between my fingertips, cold and still;
I never smelt it in its putrid scent, sluggishly invasive, filling your palate like mould; I never tasted it in salty spilt tears, and i had never even seen it. I had never seen life slowly drain from someone's eyes, consuming their cheekbones, stealing smiles, thinning their hair until it fell like autumn leaves.
I had never seen it until that week, where it was the only thing that invaded my sight; then I became death.

Every day I woke up just to meet her. I would leave the warmth of my bed, exposing my skin to the usual english cold to cover it up with fresh clothes. I stared at the cereal bowl, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, put on my shoes.
Then I went to see her.
Hours upon hours, sitting on that tiny chair, I observed her like a silent grim reaper, too scared to talk, too scared to have the last moment of warmth my mother would have ever been able to give me.
I thought perhaps my eyes were taking away every single drop of vitality remained in her fragile body. Perhaps I was being greedy, sitting on that damn chair all day, gazing and consuming her flesh worse than her cancer ever could.
And she simply laid there, unable to do anything different. Sometimes, her fleeble mouth would twitch in quick shocks, almost painfully, and her finger would move a little. And, i thought, it was the only moment i truly saw her move so still.
I was used to constant shuffling, cleaning, cooking, sewing, knitting, a baby or two always in her arms; never rest, never that peaceful expression, only an annoyed frown and furrowed brows. I couldn't blame her, though. It was one hell of a job, to raise ten kids. And i saw that every day, I admired her strength, but i never had the courage to tell her. Coward i was, coward i remained. So still, i kept looking at her without speaking a word.

Sometimes, a few family friends and sibilings would come to visit her, shedding tears and grim words; I simply observed. And i observed, and i observed, like the mould on that room's ceiling, always present to watch yet almost invisible. I dont know what i had expected, perhaps I thought she was going to wake up if i just looked at her hard enough, perhaps I simply wanted to memorize her figure before it was too late.

The last days felt as if I was the cancer itself. The mouldy ceiling of that old hospital seeped into her lungs first, then mine, and I was spreading it everywhere.
Everything touched became death, every sneeze, every cough, every sniffle. It was unwashable, no matter how many times i scrubbed my hands and body with soap, no matter how long I spent cleaning my shoes, my clothes, my hair, my forks and knives.
It was always there, hidden, black.
I could still smell the mould, peeking from inside the fold of a shirt, hidden between strands of my hair, shielded behind my nails.
It got worse and worse, and over a few days my obsession became insistent and fear invincible.

Everytime i came back home, even if i had exited it for merely a few moments, i strapped naked in front of my door, uncaring of anyone who could've seen that vile play, because the idea of bringing the mould home was scarier.
And i left a bucket and a gallon of vinegar besides the umbrellas at the entrance so I could soak my clothes there and leave them overnight; then I ran into the restroom and I took a bath.
I bathed myself four, five, six times every day. It never got rid of the smell.