Who are you? This a question every person will think about during one's lifetime. Whether it's a question for another person or for themselves. At face value, it may not seem like a complex question, but beyond the surface level, it's excruciating. How can someone know who they are? When you face yourself in the mirror how do you know that is you? By the sculpting of your face, the copied movements in the mirror, or maybe even by the sounds coming from your mouth. For me, the only way I know it's me is by the taste of sick in my throat. When I make the mistake of biting into the raw meat left marinating on the counter.
As the sick finally left my throat, I couldn't help but regret my decisions. At first, the meat seemed quite tasty. The scent was deceiving as the sauce it was covered in was sweet. After getting past that sweetness from the sauce, the raw meat flavor pierces through. The pungent taste of bloody rusted earth was downright horrible and was not quick to leave my mouth after splitting it out. The gamey texture didn't compliment the flavor either. If I had chewed the meat anymore then pieces would have defiantly gotten stuck in my teeth. Maybe if some had actually gotten stuck in my teeth, that would be a lesson for letting intrusive thoughts overtake me.
Now my poor sink looked like a gruesome crime scene. The meat was slowly falling down the side of the sink. It looked slightly alive as it slid down the walls to the center. I turned on the sink hoping the water would allow it to go down easier. If Mom saw this, she would most certainly question me. But how could someone question the natural primal instincts of a human? Meat is meat, and we are still carnivores. Technically omnivores but hunters at the core. I currently had no excuses, so rushing to get rid of the evidence was the top priority. Shoving partially chewed meat down the drain wasn't the smartest idea as it was slowly clogging the sink.
The meat was now soggy.
The water that had now pooled due to its inability to go down the drain was slightly pink. But even with it being pink, I was able to see my reflection faintly. My pale face looked back at me. The bags under my eyes looked slightly worse than normal. Whether that was because of the pink water doing a poor job reflecting or my poor sleeping habits was a question I felt like ignoring. My hands which were gripping the sink began to loosen their grip. I reached to turn off the sink as the water was rising, and I didn't want it to overflow. The fast-rising water was a reminder of how I needed to solve this problem before Mom saw. So now on to plan B.
Plan b was now being executed. Plan B is grabbing the chunks of soggy meat and throwing them away. Which was much more effective than the drain. As I was washing my hands of the meat that remained on them, I heard footsteps. Fast and small pitter-patter footsteps. If someone didn't know any better, they would have mistaken it for a child's footsteps. But my mom is a small petite woman who had small feet and walked with urgency. I could feel her eyes on me as she rushed her way into the kitchen, although she was more worried about the meat she had forgotten.
"Did you see any flies on the meat?" Mom asked as she reached for the marinated meat.
"Nope," the soap had finally washed away, and I turned off the sink.
"I think I am gonna just serve it with some rice," she sighed, "What do you think?"
"That sounds good," I turned to walk away from the sink, but before I walked back to my room, I asked, "You know when dad is coming back home?"
She didn't even turn around while saying, "The usual time."
Even though we both knew the answer, it was a question we both asked and answered each day. It was a routine action that was ingrained in both of us. Whether it was because we missed dad or because it was the only way we kept track of the time, it was a needed question. As I headed back to my room, I began to notice the clash of soap and my body odor. Not that I smelled horrible, but it was not as nice as the scent of Mom's lavender dish soap. I open my closet sliding doors to grab a new set of clothes. I picked my set of clothes wisely as dad was coming back, and if it was something out of the ordinary the judgment would never end.
Dad was a very old-fashioned man. He cared about his image. And, having a son that didn't dress the part would surely give him a heart attack. So wearing a skirt or any vibrantly colored clothes was out of the question. They would have to stay hidden in the dark corners of my closet if I wanted to keep them. In the end, I pulled out some grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt.
I always thought our bathroom had too many mirrors. It was only convent if you wanted to see yourself in the mirror. But if you don't like the person in the mirror then, I imagined it was torture. We had a mirror above the sink, on the bathroom door, and in the shower. The mirror showed me how dry my dyed green hair was. It also showed me how I needed to redye it, as my black roots were incredibly noticeable. These mirrors really were torture, they make me want to redye my hair now. If I hadn't gotten another wift of my scent and the smell of soap, I might have redyed it here and now.
As I pulled off my clothes, I felt an uncomfortable tuck at my pubic hair. They had gotten caught in the fabric of my underwear, which means it is time to cut them. As I slid the rest of my underwear off the tucking continued but become less uncomfortable. The tugging had stopped but a tingling sensation was left. I sat on the toilet seat as I tried to savor the last of it. As the sensation slowly started to dissipate, I couldn't help feeling disappointed. This was a new sensation to me as I have never let my pubic hair grow out to the point of the uncomfortable tugging to accrue. The thought of putting my underwear back on and pulling it off again was very tempting. But my hands seemed eager to do the job instead. My finger ran themselves and lightly pulled at my pubic hairs. The shame I felt was slipping away as the sensation grew stronger. I shifted my legs instinctively while my blood started to rush. I looked away as I still had some shame left.
The reflections of the mirror in the shower and door bounced off each other allowing me to see how my hand moved toward the blood flow. They began to move rhythmically, making it difficult to keep quiet. I tilted my head back and left out small pants, which echoed throughout the bathroom. Worried that I was being too loud, I began to hold my breath, now the fapping of my hands and blood flow were the only sounds echoing in the bathroom. My hands moved faster as I reached the climate. Finally, at the release, I allowed myself to breathe again. I couldn't help but quietly pant and let the stickiness drip onto the floor. A small smile spread across my face as I hadn't felt this good in a while. I forgot how at ease you feel after.
Now the peace was gone, and the shame came back. I buried my face in my hands as I couldn't believe how I just wet the floor. The word masochist wouldn't leave my mind as I cleaned up the floor. I never thought that something as uncomfortable as getting my pubic hair pulled could get me off. I looked up from the floor and into the mirrors and all I could think of was how I am a pervert. From there my brain thought the best punishment was to dye my pubic hair green. And I couldn't help but laugh at the thought. I finally have gone crazy. I turned on the shower and stood under the water. The stupid mirrors kept showing me my now limp blood flow. I couldn't help but fall to my knees because all I can think about is how I am a pervert.