Only Your Touch

Chapter One

I wake up, wash my hands.

I make breakfast, wash my hands.

I eat breakfast, wash my hands.

I clean the dishes, throw out the sponge, wash my hands, add sponges to the list of groceries, and wash my hands one more time.

I take a shower, throughly washing my body with soap and my hair with shampoo and conditioner. Then I grab a towel from the cabinet to dry myself and wash my hands before I leave the bathroom.

By this time, the cuts from the obsessive years of washing my hands have reopened and begun to bleed. So I'm forced to wash my hands again before I cover the cuts with band-aids.

Then I leave to get dressed. I'm dressed in a nice suit. But today isn't the day for a jacket. So I wear just my white button up and a slim black tie.

And I go to wash my hands.

Again.

And I have to reapply new band-aids. This time, waterproof.

When I brush my hair, I think of the amount of dust that could have fallen from the ceiling. And that makes me scrub my hands, making fresh cuts and tearing off the waterproof band-aids.

I would have to reapply them for the third time.

Even blood could hold germs. Dirt. Dust. Disease. Abnormalities.

Then I go to get my gloves. I put my sore fingers into their rightful places and make sure the gloves are snug as well as tucked into my buttoned wrists. They'll keep my hands safe from the majority of the germs.

I put my phone in my pocket, grabbed my bag with my lunch inside, and put the scheduler inside the bag as well. Then I left. I made my way down the stairs. It was less traveled so not that many germs.

I could feel how sore my hands were. Every time my fingers would stretch or curl, I could feel the cuts pull apart. Becoming bigger and pumping more blood outside my body. causing more unsanitary things in my life.

I was glad that I could walk to work. That I didn't have to take a dirty subway or taxi. Not that I was saying anything against the people who run those means of transportation making them dirty themselves. It's the fact that every human is dirty. Even myself. Because even though I scrub away everything I can possibly see, more grows over time. Then there was the stuff I couldn't see.

"Kellin?" I stopped in the hallway when one of my co-workers called out to me. I watched as the man made his way to me. I think his name was Jack. I just know that I've stared at his beard and wondered if he kept it clean. I took a step back as he came closer. "Oh, yeah. Sorry. I forgot about the whole germaphob thing. Boss wants you." I felt a little angry twitch at the layman's term. I didn't like the fact that people called it that. It made me sound that I was overreacting.

"Thank you." I made my way up to the boss's office, placing my hand on the disgusting germ ridden doorknob. "I'm sorry I was late, Mr. Fu-" I stopped my sentence short. My cheeks were burning red. I didn't realize he had someone he was talking to. I didn't see any indication of another person. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't-"

"It's okay, Kellin. This is just my son." The man in the chair didn't turn to look at me. He just adjusted his beanie on his head. "Do you have my schedule for the week?"

"Yes, I do." I took my planner out of my bag and went over to place it in his hands. He luckily got the hint a couple of months ago and grabbed it with tissues. He kept the tissues as he flipped through to the correct date. I felt someone staring at me. I glanced at where his son was sitting in the chair.