Washing The Skin
by Tobie Abad

She sits by the basin, her feet wet and cold from the soapy water. Her hands are sore from scrubbing. Her hair, the dance partner of the wind. Its been minutes since she had risen from her position. Her nape watched the moon continued her silent trek across the sea of broken tears. Her ears were deaf to the cold breeze that called to declare the coming of dusk.

She raises the soiled cloth, a shirt; its green and white turned sour by the yellow stains of her vomit. With a disgusted face, she drowns the shirt again, hands tightly holding the sleeves, as if fearful that the shirt would rise and rebel. The water spins its bubble skin about the cloth before swallowing it into its delicate pureness. She stares at the round spheres, admiring their rainbows, then watches (perhaps at awe, perhaps at astonishment) as they burst into a myriad of colors before vanishing with the wind or rejoining its watery womb. And silently, she wishes she too could be like the bubbles, clear and beautiful� delicate� pure. But when the wind blows once more, she thanks her saints and closes her eyes and is grateful: She did not vanish like the bubbles. She did not suddenly die. She knows she is not ready to die yet.

She knows she is young and in her youth, a bright future awaits to be carved and partaken. Her mind wanders as she begins to scrub on the cloth once more. The yellow vomit mingles for a moment between her fingers before the soap overpowers its viscous grasp and assimilates them. Soon, the basin is filled with bubbles floating on a sea of regurgitated liquids and used up detergent. Upon realising this (which takes quite some time) she empties the basin and stares at the shirt once more. Its cloth remains soiled. Its whiteness lacking purity. Its form marked perhaps forever?

She used to be a dreamer. She�d wake up in the morning, her mind freshly threading together the fragments of another memorable dream she had tasted, and write down in a small diary what she could. Then, she�d shower and get dressed while humming along to the music she�d play. On Mondays, it was Janet. On other days, they ranged between Tori Amos, The Corrs or Everything But the Girl. Then, she�d grab her shoulder bag (inside, her drawing pad, pocketbook and set of art materials fought for space) and kiss her parents goodbye before rushing off to school. Even during the simple trip to school, she�d either make friends with the stranger who sat beside her, come up with a story to tell based on a dream she had (and remembered better upon reading her diary) or make sketches of those she�d see as the jeepney she rode hasted past. Then, when she finds herself finally among friends, she�d tell them her stories, show them her works and reminisce with them the memories they shared.

Those were the days she no longer lived.

The shirt remained marred by the tiny stain on its sleeve. She pulled her head back, so harshly that it looked as if it would fall off, then uttered out a weak cry of defiance. Her hands groped the ground for the bar of detergent which had begun to melt from repeatedly diving into water. It was as if they had a life of their own, her hands, as they slid the bar up and down the stain, and rubbed, skin against skin - cloth against cloth, in a futile attempt to cleanse away the marking left by uncaring hands. It was her own vomit that stained the shirt, of course. But the regurgitated food was violently expelled not due to choice, but due to the harsh motions done to her by someone she trusted so much.

He has no name now.

But he used to be called Francis.

They were classmates ever since she first entered the University. She was one of those who came to school late during the first week. Embarrassing, for her yes, but she had a good reason. The bus she rode broke down along the highway and not seeing any one she knew driving down the road, she was forced to wait till the bus was fixed and they were on the way once more. Francis was late too. Although his reason was a trifle less reasonable: he woke up late. They became close friends that day. She showed him her drawings and told him about her family, while he treated her out to lunch and showed her around. Francis, as it turned out, was older than her by a few years, and was still in the University due to certain back subjects.

She loved the way he�d laugh and expand on her work by creating stories about the characters she drew. And he, she assumed, began to like the way she�d share her dreams and sing the songs she loved. It wasn�t for long, those close to them both began to sense something was in the air. That something was going on between them. That something was going to happen soon.

No one expected this.

She threw the shirt back into the basin, feeling the sharp tinge of soap against raw skin, and closed her teary eyes. The image of his face appeared in her head. She yelled out a voiceless scream then thrust both hands back into the basin. Fighting the urge to pull them back from the bubbling waters that seemed like acid to her flesh, she continued what she had been doing for hours, scrubbing, and hoped that the stain would fade away. But he didn�t fade away from her mind.

Even when Tina, her best friend, warned her that she didn�t think Francis was up to any good, he didn�t fade away. Even when she overheard rumors about Francis having been a violent person, he didn�t fade away. Even when he invited her over to a party at a friend�s house, drove by and picked her up while her parents were out, took a right turn down Makati Avenue instead of a left, pulled her dress down and forced himself into her as she screamed for him to stop and leave her alone, he didn�t fade away.

A mantra had formed in her lips. Silently, she began to mouth out words to herself recalling somewhere that such things bring strength. You - Used - Me - I - Hate - You - You - Used - Me - I - Hate - You kept on flowing out of her lips as if they were words invoking some supernatural force to help her. With her eyes squeezed shut, she swallowed away her pain and hoped it would remain deep inside and unnoticed until the time came to expel it out and flush it goodbye.

Instead, the pressure grew again and vomit once more threatened to come. But her food had already been discharged and with nothing left to expunge, it was the pain instead that came. The anguish overwhelmed her and she found herself tossing the shirt into the basin and grabbing hold of her stomach and throat. The unconscious motions of a struggling act of retching came once more and she found herself gasping inches from the soapy foam.

She closed her eyes, weakened now, and allowed the cold water to kiss her face. It felt refreshing. Frighteningly refreshing. Amidst the pain and suffering, the basin of water seemed to offer a release from the painful truth of life. She raised her head once more, the bubbles dripping of her chin and nose, then looked for her haggard reflection. Instead she found murky water, dwindling bubbles, and the soiled shirt. Again, her hands moved to their own volition, and began to scrub the shirt clean.

Her parents found her, pale and shivering on the floor a few minutes past midnight. They at first though she was out as usual with Francis and were expecting her to come home around 9:00pm as agreed upon quite some time ago. Maybe, they figured, the two love-birds were out watching a movie together or perhaps taking a stroll around the park. It was Tina who made them realise something was wrong.

Tina had passed by Francis� place to tell him to leave her alone. Upon getting there, she found herself audience to a very proud Francis confessing to his friends that he finally had gotten rid of the dreaded V label. Her mouth agape in shock, she closed her eyes, fought the urge to hurl her tightening fists into his face. Instead, she ran to her car and drove off in such a hurry that the wheels screeched anger for her.

The persistent doorbell was the first sign to her parents that something was wrong. When they opened the gate to find a frantic Tina, emotions surged. Her parents demanded an explanation on what was happening while Tina began to yell out in concern for her friend. When the father threatened to throw Tina out of the house, that�s when she called out in response to her friend�s pleas. Tina rushed past the confused father and hurried to the side of the house. She was weak and trembling. Her eyes fluttered to and fro as if fearing some invisible chimera that sought to attack her had she let her guard down. Tina, between gasps for breath and tears that threatened to choke her, explained to the parents what she overheard when she visited Francis� place. The father became volatile, rushed to the phone, called the guy�s house and demanded that Francis be given the line. The mother on the other hand rushed to Tina�s side and asked if there was anything she could do. Tina closed her eyes, unable to answer. She reached down and grabbed a hold of her friend�s hand and released it suddenly, feeling the loose and delicate flesh and fearing that the act of grasping it tight might break the skin.

She is getting better now.

Although Tina wishes that her friend be allowed to remain at home, it has become clear to her that such an act would be illogical and dangerous. Twice, when she was allowed to return home, did her parents find her again by the side of the house; hands furiously scrubbing a shirt� any shirt� in the suds. Twice too, did Tina learn in dismay when she visited her, had she tried to call the nameless once, Francis. As of why, it is unclear. But Tina suspects that, as sickening as it may seem, it could be due to love.

She is getting better now.

But the baby did not make it.

All her scrubbing by the side of the house failed to wash her sins away. And in her eyes, failed to remove the stain of the nameless man�s crime against her purity. And although the shirt she wore that day, marked with the violation of the nameless man called Francis, was cleaned as if brand new, she never believed that. And when the doctors told her parents that all the stress and anxiety and pain she has gone through had taken the child away from her, she merely smiled and closed her eyes and once more mouthed out her powerful, secret mantra: You - Used - Me - I - Hate - You.

But Tina believes she is getting better.

She has to.

And Tina prays each night for that day they once again meet, and she sees a smile on her friend�s face, instead of the cruel marks left behind due to washing the skin of sins.