word vomit

As your hand brushes away the grime of the last day, your lips barely let escape a sigh - or what would be one, if it had been anything more than just a quiver of lips and a strong gasp of silent air. Or what may have been the last day - you're not so sure. The grime may have been your father's, but he most definitely had not bathed yesterday evening, or it could be your younger sister's. Upon the thought, it was most definitely someone's last day - and judging by the short, scattered shaving stubble hairs pooled by the plughole, you decide it was most definitely hers. You shake your hand almost immediately, rubbing it quickly across the towel (the same one  draping your frame in an effort to shield your feeble form from no-one) to rid the hundreds of thousands of microscopic skin cells and tiny hairs that, dare you think it, revolt you. Not because it's grime, dead grime, although it might as well be; the person shedding it died long ago. The water you find yourself stepping into is milky white - at least it is as you lay yourself out, the towel left for later. You think it's too much grime - too much grime for someone who showered only the day previously. But then you think you may have been skipping time in your head; skipping everything. The date though, the one sitting beside your TV reads December 24th, as it should read the day proceeding The Last Day. The Last Day was not supposed to be, well, The Last Day. The Last Day was meant to wait until after the new year, it was meant to give you and your younger sister time to adjust; you are barely into your teens, and she is barely into being a child.

The way your hair hangs in the water also doesn't seem right; neither does the deaf silence hang right. It's too quiet. You never thought yourself as one to miss your sister, but you did. A day ago you would - had been - laughing at the thought, saying that you wouldn't care, just wouldn't care at all.

And as you stare at the grime sat there after all the water has flown down the drain you think oh, because you cannot see any difference between what was left by the woman or what was left by yourself.