Confessions of a Control Freak
I don’t like it when the sink is dirty.
I scrub, and scrub, and scrub, and it never gets clean. Somehow, there’s always one little spot that won’t budge - besieged by sponges and soap, that determined little fortress still stands. Today, it was a thick, crusty blue chunk on the left-hand side. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was Blake’s.
Blake is my roommate. And yet, he rarely acts like one. He doesn’t clean the hair out of the shower after he’s finished showering. He leaves his toothbrush on the sink instead of putting it in the toothbrush cup. He shaves every two days, and he doesn’t clean after himself because he always wakes up just before class. His razors are clogged with hair and dried cream. That same dried cream is now on the left-hand side of our sink.
I tried everything - wet wipes, soapy sponges, even damp toilet paper. Nothing. In desperation, I used my fingernail to scrape at it. I pressed down, hard, trying to loosen it. Nothing. I dug my nail into the center of the chunk, hoping that I could get at least part of it. Nothing. I pressed my nail down again, as hard as I could. Crack. I gasped and clutched my finger. For a few seconds, I couldn’t look. If I could just sink down to the floor, cradling my finger in my other hand and waiting until the pain subsided, it would be okay. But it didn’t subside. It got worse.
Finally, I forced myself to glance at it. My nail was cracked, and the skin around it was puffy and bright pink. Blood oozed out and dribbled down my finger. In that moment, I knew what I had to do.
When Blake came home that night, I smiled and said, “Hey, how was your day?” As he started ranting, I noticed his chin was still covered in light blond hair. That stupid man couldn’t even shave his face correctly. I nodded, “Wow, that sounds rough. Why don’t you take a nice, relaxing shower?” He scratched his chin thoughtfully and wandered into the bathroom.
As I waited for the sound of water, I noticed the cushions on the couch were askew, no doubt after a wild night with his friends. I clenched my teeth and stalked over to the couch.
I was fluffing the second pillow when I suddenly heard a rush of water from the faucet, followed by a knob turning and the light spray of the shower head. I have to admit that I smiled, just a little. Okay, maybe it was more of a grin. Or a grimace. I’m still not quite sure.
I crept up to the door and grabbed the handle, only to feel a wave of panic. What if he had locked the door? I hadn’t thought about that. I exhaled, trying to regain my composure, and lightly pushed.
The door opened, swiftly, silently, and before I could stop myself I was standing just a few feet away from him. Our bathroom is quite small, which is probably why I had been driven to this point of no return. He was blasting music through his speakers and singing loudly. A tenor. I have to admit he had a beautiful voice.
I glanced around, and my eyes lit up as I saw the bottle of shaving cream. It was one of those X-Tra Large bottles, and I figured it was heavy enough. I reached over and carefully grabbed it in my left hand.
In one quick motion, I stepped over to the shower, pulled back the curtain, and struck him on the head. He crumpled to the ground, a mess of bare arms and legs. Well, that was easier than I thought it would be.
The steam was getting thick — Blake always loved it scalding-hot — so I carefully leaned over and turned the handle until the water was cool. His skin was turning red from all the hot water. His eyes were closed, and his tongue was just barely hanging out of his mouth. I had to suppress a grin as I poked his tongue. It was soft and squishy, like a little gummy worm. I grasped it between my thumb and index finger, and squeezed. What if I pulled it out?
Suddenly, I noticed a dark liquid running down his neck. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not in my bathtub. Blake had to move. I grabbed the back of his head and felt something squishy. I jumped and pulled my hand back. It was covered in that same liquid, that ugly dark stain. No, no, no. Even in death, Blake was still trying to leave stains in my bathroom.
That’s how I ended up here, standing at the sink, washing my hands. Oops! There’s a little bit of blood on the rim of the bowl. I’ll just carefully grab a Clorox wipe and scrub it. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Thank goodness I was able to catch that.
I don’t like it when the sink is dirty.