Kris makes sure the door is locked before taking stock of the bathroom. They feel themself drag to the sink, and do their best to not make eye contact with the thing in the mirror clad in lime and brown. Their right arm tugs at the faucet's blue knob, then creaks it open.
Just a little relief, Kris thinks to themself as they get lost in the soothing hiss and splash of water. They don't have to know, they reassure themself.
Kris flexes their right thumb. Then their right index finger. Then their right middle finger. Then their entire hand. And catches the bottom of their sweater, lifting it up, up, leaving enough room for one hand above their chest.
As Kris carries their other arm up by the fingertip, they close their eyes and remember. Snapping strings, crackling chains, puppets. They guide their index finger in circles along their skin, feeling it rise against their fingernails' serrated edges as they suck in a breath,
Before they CLAW down, inside, down and inside with all of their fingers.
So that's why.
The motion isn't practiced, but it is familiar. It reminds them of the nights when their house's quiet is a bit too deafening, their reflection a bit too hard on the eyes.
Kris isn't used to aiming for the body, but in the moment, it doesn't feel any different from their forearm or thumb or cheek or neck. Maybe a bit less flinching. Just a little relief.
One,
Their hand latches onto a plush, pulsing organ. It tugs and tugs.
Two,
They sputter out a strained gasp, teeth chattering—It's not supposed to take this long—
Three.
Out comes their shaking fingers. In their palm, beating wretchedly, is their SOUL.
Their knees buckle, and with their free hand they catch the bathroom cabinet beneath the sink, swing it open, and in goes their SOUL.
They slam the door shut, the noise smothered by the hiss of the running tap, then take a shaky breath.