my short story!!

She went to the sink. The sink that had always been there; with the purest, clearest water and the cleanest white marble. It was the one thing she could trust, or at least the only water she could trust. Putting her hands under the cool, soft, water, she let out a sigh of relief. Carefully, she took her towel and wiped the tears off her face.

There are pressure points on your hands, between your thumb and your pointer-finger in the litter web of skin stretching between them. She held this very spot with her left hand. She clamped her fingers so tightly on that spot that her hand started to turn a rosy red. Although it didnt make the pain go away, it focused her attention on just that one spot on her hand. She held this position for what seemed like forever, trying to concentrate on that one pressure point, meditating (or trying to) until she felt herself cool down. Her once dilated eyes became smaller, her shoulders relaxed, and her pounding heart grew softer.

When she felt she was calm, she washed the blood from her fingers and quickly dried them. She opened a new box of band-aids and put one on each finger.

The next morning she went to school. Her band-aids seemed like neon lights, lit up and ready to attract attention. She was greeted with the usual sympathetic concerns of her friends, the "what happened?"s and the "are you ok?"s. One of the worst things, it seemed, to say to a person was these compassionate questions. She didnt want the attack to have happened, it just did. And thus, she shrank back. Trying to dim the screaming brightness coming from those damn band-aids. Even the most outgoing person would shrink back and want to be completely invisible after a panic attack. All she could do was politely nod to her friends bombarding her with empathetic questions and sit down to prepare for class to start.

Throughout the day she was constantly reminded of her own deed of the previous night. And every one in a while she would have to submit to her disorder's will and wash the puss and sweat out from under her band-aids. The criminal that is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder would veer its ugly face, forcing the poor girl to run disgusting, filthy, slimy school-bathroom water over her hands. Just the idea of it made her cringe.

As the day drew on, there was wave after wave of classes and obstacles she had to conquer before she was able to go home. Each wave weathering her down a bit more than the previous, until finally the day was over; it ended just before the last wave knocked her down and drove her under.

After a considerable amount of homework, she found herself crying and scratching at her hands once more. From the sweet, innocent girl, she transformed into a savage barbarian. Taking a comb and rubbing her skin with it, picking at her already stubby nails, tearing hangnails, the goo was her prey.

It wasnt a real goo; but then again it wasnt a fake goo. It felt like mucus and glue, and smelt like pineapples and sweat. But there was almost no way to make the revolting goo go away. Sometimes it just went away, but most of the time it stayed there to haunt you.

At the sink once again she tried to drown her panic and fear. She had to get the goo off. And she would have accomplished her goal, if only the goo could come off. She knew as well as the next guy that the pursuit of getting the goo off was always futile. Thoughts of all kinds came pouring into her head, like some dam had randomly broke and let all of the thoughts it was withholding pour into this pitiable girl's head.

Shaking and sobbing she looked into the mirror. Her hair looked untamed and wild, mascara and tears soaked her cheeks. But when she looked into the mirror she didnt see this nameless face of "insane" that she had seen moments ago. But rather she saw a strong girl. A girl with no weakness. She saw herself, she saw Abria Delores.