The Routine


The Routine.

by Marie McKay

My feet on the cold tiles are making me shiver. I am washing with my eyes closed; my body feeling like a dirty sink.

My reluctant hands move over clumsy, awkward shapes that could break into pieces to lie fierce and sharp beneath murky waters. 

A lair. Layer. Liar. Skeletons beneath my skeleton. 

But I am already shattered; fissures screaming distress signals across my flesh: semaphore flagged up on skin.

With fingertips I read the clutter; it tells me I am faulty and makes me nauseous.

Like always I keep my eyes closed, until I am dried and dressed. 

______________________________________________________

Top photo cred Pepe Reyes, unsplash.com

Marie McKay lives in Scotland with her husband and four kids. She was an English teacher before becoming a carer for her disabled daughter. She has had stories published in various magazines including, 100 word story, Bending Genres and Literary Orphans.


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