The glass reflects back a face that I can barely bring my eyes to meet.
It’s a broken face.
A tired face.
A face that screams defeat.
I’m pleading with myself. Stop eyeing the soap. Get your hand away from that soap dispenser. Please don’t turn on that damn faucet. I don’t want to wash my hands for the eighth time because I might have, but most likely didn’t, touch something that COULD have been surrounded by someone’s germs over six months ago.
Washing your hands is supposed to signify a cleansing, but I think I’m overdoing the cleanse.
My hands are raw, burning, bleeding. I’m exhausted. I keep walking back and forth to the sink. I just want to go to bed. But I can’t. I can’t go to sleep. My hands are dirty. And logic won’t save me. Only soap and hot water will. So out of bed I go to wash my hands just one more time.
Okay, make that two more times.
It’s getting late. I’m trying to resist washing my hands again. My brain is in overdrive. I’ll never forgive myself if I fall ill because I didn’t wash my hands just one last time...
But now I can’t move.
My eyes are starting to get heavy.
The melatonin is kicking in.
As I drift off I throw my anxious mind a bone.
If I survive tonight, I promise I’ll wash my hands more tomorrow.