Chapter 3

I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The anger that had propelled me from the living room began to cool, leaving behind a slick, oily residue of shame. I looked down at myself. My chest and stomach were a sticky, cooling mess of my own release. The sight was repulsive. I felt dirty, not just physically, but down to my very soul. What had I done? What was I becoming?

I stumbled into the adjoining bathroom, flicking on the light with a trembling hand. The mirror reflected a stranger: a young man with wild eyes and a flushed face, his chest smeared with the evidence of his depravity. I couldn’t look at him. I turned on the shower, cranking the handle as far as it would go, needing the water to be as hot as I could stand it. As steam filled the small room, I stepped under the scalding spray, hissing as it hit my skin. I scrubbed myself raw, the soap feeling like it was burning away the filth. I washed my chest, my stomach, my groin, trying to erase the memory of her eyes watching me, the memory of my own hand moving on my cock. “Never again,” I whispered to the tiled wall, the words lost in the hiss of the water. “I will never think of it again. I will never speak of it. It never happened.” I made a vow to myself, a sacred promise to bury the day’s events so deep they could never claw their way out.

After what felt like an eternity, I stepped out, my skin red and sensitive. I toweled off roughly, my movements still jerky with residual disgust. Dressed in clean clothes, I took a deep breath and ventured back into the living room. The TV was off now, the room cast in the soft glow of the evening light. The sofa looked innocent, just a piece of furniture. But I knew. I walked over to the spot where I had been, where she had been. I could still see the faint, dark patch on the cushion. My stomach churned. I went to the kitchen, grabbed a wet cloth, and some cleaning spray. I returned and scrubbed the fabric with a vengeance, my arm aching with the effort. I wasn’t just cleaning a stain; I was trying to scrub away the sin, the memory, the very air of what had transpired. When I was done, the spot was gone. I stood back, a strange sense of hollow victory settling in my chest. It was clean. It was over.