Chapter 6: The Baptism of Shame
The water broke with a ragged, sucking gasp as Mary finally yanked his head back by the hair. Robert’s world shrunk to the violent rush of air scraping down his raw throat, the soap stinging his nostrils, the blurred outlines of the two women standing over him. His back wasn’t pain anymore; it was a single, screaming sheet of nerve endings, each one broadcasting the precise, gritty path of the wire brush.
“See the erythema?” Bridgit’s voice was calm, instructive. She held up the brush for Mary to see. Flecks of skin and soap clung to the bristles. “A proper epidermal scrub. It allows for deeper penetration of the corrective agents.”
Mary released his hair. Her hands, now on his shoulders, felt like ice. “Deeper penetration,” she repeated, her voice hollow. “Good.”
Robert trembled, his body shuddering against the leather restraints holding his wrists to the sides of the sink cabinet. Water and snot dripped from his face into the cloudy, sudsy basin. He couldn’t form words, only wet, broken sounds.
“We’ll need to neutralize the soap and cool the tissue before the next phase,” Bridgit said, turning to a trolley Robert hadn’t noticed. It was stainless steel, lined with bottles and basins. She poured a clear liquid from a large jug into a shallow pan. The sharp, vinegary scent of dilute acetic acid cut through the soap.
“This will help with the chemical burns from the cleanser,” Bridgit said, as if commenting on the weather. She dipped a large, sterile gauze square into the pan, wringing it out. “Hold him steady, Mary.”
Mary’s grip on his shoulders tightened, pinning him forward over the sink. Robert flinched, a pathetic animal jerk, as the soaked gauze met his ravaged skin.
It wasn’t water. It was a cold that bit, a sharp, clarifying sting that seared through the lingering heat. He cried out, a thin, reedy sound.
“It’s just vinegar and water, Robert,” Bridgit chided, swabbing the cloth in long, ungentle strokes down his spine. “Basic first aid. Count yourself lucky we’re not debriding actual dead tissue. Yet.”
Each pass felt like a layer was being peeled away. The acid solution found every microscopic tear the brush had opened. He panted, forehead pressed against the cool stainless steel of the sink’s back ledge, eyes squeezed shut.
Mary leaned down. Her lips were close to his ear, her voice a whisper meant only for him, yet carrying in the sterile quiet of the room. “Remember the hotel in Niagara? The one with the heart-shaped tub? I called your room for three hours. You told me you fell asleep with the phone off the hook.”
The memory was a different kind of burn. Shame, cold and thick, pooled in his stomach.
“I was so worried,” she whispered. The gauze scraped over his shoulder blade. “I imagined you dead in a ditch. But you were just… elsewhere. Weren’t you?”
Bridgit tossed the used gauze into a biohazard bin. It landed with a soft, final thud. She picked up a towel, rough and white, and began patting his back dry. The terrycloth abraded the sensitized skin like sandpaper.
“The skin is prepared,” Bridgit announced. “Katy, bring in the basin.”
The door hissed open and the assistant entered, carrying a deep, wide bowl filled with a substance that looked like wet cement, pale grey and slightly shimmering. She set it on the trolley with a weighty thunk.
“What… is that?” Robert managed, his voice wrecked.
“The reminder,” Mary said, straightening up. Her fingers left his shoulders. “Bridgit explained it to me.