The red dress club did a number on me with this week's Red Writing Hood challenge.
The idea is to write a descriptive piece that takes place in either a shower or over a meal.
The kicker? No personal pronouns.
Dude, this was haaaaaaaaaard.
If you are a new reader, in "real life" I am pretty funny and not quite so deep. Thanks for stopping by.
As always, suggestions, comments, and advice are welcome!
Sitting on the bench in this chrome and glass coccon. Normally, a sanctuary. Today, a laboratory.
Yes. The water is hot, because any feeling is a good feeling. Pain means something has remained.
No hospital grade cakes of soap today. Rather, Egyptian cotton washcloths and citrus body wash from last spring's visit to Canyon Ranch. From before.
Each strand of hair, long and shroud-like, gets a benediction. Tender strokes and soft lavender suds. Rinse and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Glorious and red, yet already a faded sunset.What will remain?
Scrubbing. Like Lady Macbeth, Out, Out, Damn Medical Adhesive. The marks, these sticky obscenities. They claimed this steamy sanctuary. Out. Begone.
Finally, the moment. The Doctor had said after the surgery, Got it all. It could run, but it couldn't hide.
The Doctor talked like a cowboy, facing off Cancer in a shoot-out. This was strangely comforting.
Trembling fingers rub the precise black stitches, and caress the familiar rise and fall---now a concave phantom. Tomorrow, a fight. Today, a lament.
Tears intermingle with the pounding hot water, soundlessly working their way to the drain.
Give it some time to heal, The Doctor said. It will be more beautiful than ever before. Nothing is more beautiful than what remains.