I grabbed clothes and then went to the bathroom, where I undressed, toweled off the sweat,
and then let my body cool down in the air, my feet cold against the floor.
I untied my hair, then stared at myself in the mirror. I hated my body.
It disgusted me—its hair, its pinpricks of sweat, its scrawniness.
Skin pulled over a skeleton, an animated corpse. I wanted out—out of my body, out of my thoughts, out—
but I was stuck inside of this thing, just like all the bacteria colonizing me.
Knock on the door. “I’m changing,” I said. I removed the Band-Aid, checked it for blood or pus, tossed it in the trash,
and then applied hand sanitizer to my finger, the burn of it seeping into the cut.
I pulled on sweatpants and an old T-shirt of my mom’s, and emerged from the bathroom, where Mom was waiting for me.
“You feeling anxious?” she said askingly. “I’m fine,” I answered, and turned toward my room.
I turned out the lights and got into bed. I wasn’t tired, exactly, but I wasn’t feeling too keen on consciousness, either.
When Mom came in, a few minutes later, I pretended to be asleep so I wouldn’t have to talk to her.
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