Peroxide (Peterick)

you think I fucking asked for this responsibility

Your home seems to be a mile away when you're lacking in hydrogen peroxide. Or time to use it. When Mikey's around, there's a certain itch that materializes in front of you, because he's still here, and he shouldn't be.

But I have the item to pour on myself.

The substance is a series of chemicals used to disinfect the skin, to treat wounds. So far, it's not working for me yet, seeing as I continue to experience the burns of my attacker's touch seeping into my pores, poisoning me.

The doctors say it's obsessive to worry about a sense that lingers for years, to possess the touch at all. I don't think it is.

Yes, maybe it isn't normal to maintain a growing supply of peroxide bottles in your bedroom, replacing the fantasy literature that previously stocked the shelves of the bookcase. Yes, maybe it isn't normal to take extended showers until your mother yells at you to get out, or you'll go bankrupt from paying for the water bill. Yes, maybe it's not normal to pour that hydrogen peroxide over your arm again and again where your assaulter grabbed you and never have it seem just right, but normal is boring.

But I suppose there's justice in saying that compulsions are too dangerous to stand for doing away with boredom. I ignore that justice every time my skin dries up from the chemicals.

Finally, Mikey's chatter draws to a close as the screen door on the porch bangs against the frame, as he steps inside after waving emphatically to me, but being wrapped up in my own thoughts, that event occurred almost ten minutes ago, and I have reached my home by instinct; my legs tend to do that for me, aware that I never pay attention to my surroundings.

My feet elevate to accommodate the height of the crumbling brick stairs, only coming into contact with the middle rectangle of each step to settle my raging mind, and I twist the knob — once left, once right — to greet the cordial aroma of lilac rushing around to tell me a story, almost like bubbly fairies in a film too laden with special effects.

It isn't time for this, Patrick. Get to the shower. Remove the touch.

"Right," I affirm to no one in particular — just sort of an indication to tug me back to reality — setting myself into motion to ascend the stairs, this time carpeted with faded white material.

The wood, hidden beneath a soft texture, creaks with even the minimal pressure of my toes, and I almost pause to apologize to it, but Dr. Saporta would disapprove, and I've had lots of people remind me that I've offended him far too many times for our relationship to be productive.

It seems like he's taking over my thoughts.

Don't say that. You hate paranoia, don't you?

Don't harbinger new ideas. Don't allow the compulsions to evolve. Don't corrupt your mind.

When I reach my door, I push it open with languid force — let's skip describing the ritual with the knob; I hate to think about it, and my friends have told me I've been getting better at keeping it under control — staring once again at the bookshelf of hydrogen peroxide across from my frozen body.

I almost forgot that one of the bottles was removed earlier, transported to the bathroom after the previous one dwindled, but it simply won't do. I can't allow it, at least not in its current pose.

Anxiously, I sprint over to the case, falling to my knees and adjusting the peroxide so that the division is straight down the center, like it should be if there's no immediate replacement.

"Fuck," I sigh, tilting back on my haunches. "Maybe I'm not getting better."

Yeah, you dimwit. You're planning to take a shower, aren't you?