A Soap with the Sweet Scent of Elsewhere

Writing a Fantastic Short Story

Some moments in life are like blessings. Instances that, if stolen from me, would reduce my existence to an endless train journey. Like a juxtaposition of life slices without jam. Topping the list is the smell of coffee, the sole reason for my morning awakening. Closely followed by chocolate, which gets me through the day. And finally, the timeless pleasure of the shower.

I only have a few steps from my bed to the first tiles of the bathroom. The floor and walls of the walk-in shower are white, adorned with some Moorish-accented mosaics. Like every morning, I turn on the ventilation and let the hot water flow for a while. It's my right foot that tests the temperature before the shoulders allow the rest of the body to enjoy the thermal shock. And there, the train starts. Through the window above my bed, I contemplate the fleshy olive tree resisting the southern wind; its top seems to touch the clouds. My gaze then lingers on the old frame, its glass reflecting the flamboyant blue of the flowering jacaranda. There, I arrive at the station. I grab the soap and let its promises awaken my senses. This one is a deep lemon green with darker lines of used coffee grounds for its exfoliating benefits. I made it myself, added some dried coconut slices on top, and scented it with patchouli essential oils. That fragrance! It's like coating oneself in a layer of mystery.

The soap slips from my fingers. I bend down. Oops, I got my hair wet. It's now only a few millimeters thick, no longer fitting in my palm or on my body. I let it finish its life on the tiles and grab a brand new one from the shelf below the sink. I start by rotating it in my hands to round its angular sides. Autumnal tones, variations of oranges and browns, the scent of cinnamon. I shiver. I place it in the soap dish and spread its creamy lather on my face. I rinse thoroughly, open my eyes again, and, to my surprise, notice that the soap has disappeared.

A quick glance at my feet, nothing. A broader inspection of the surroundings, and ah! I see it, there, near the bed. It must have fallen, slid. I decide to use the bath mat as an assistant and opt for a semi-splits in the direction of the fugitive. I reach it, hand outstretched. A sharp sound suspends my gesture. Water splashes onto me. No, damn it! The showerhead must have come out of its holder. There's water everywhere. I rush to the shower, nearly slipping on the remains of the lime-green soap stuck to the floor, grab the hose wriggling like a snake, finally master it, and put the showerhead back in its holder.

I rest my forehead for a moment on the wet tiles and let my heartbeats catch their breath. A strong patchouli scent emanates from the steam, and my head spins a bit. I bury my face under the shower, open my mouth, close my throat, let the warm liquid overflow like a river in flood. I grab the shampoo in the absence of soap. I take my time massaging my scalp and use the surplus foam for my shoulders. I move between my breasts and draw a circle as if to reveal two volcanoes. I go down to the navel, and suddenly I have the strange sensation that the texture of the foam has changed. It's rougher. Abrasive. I take a little more shampoo and gently pass between my legs, but again, an unpleasant sensation of sandpaper. Leaning forward, I see slight irritations, small red dots like dozens of pinheads. A stream of green-tinted water flows between my thighs. I raise my head, disturbed; I hastily rinse my hands, but the burning sensation intensifies, and the itching spreads up to my neck. Panicked, I don't know whether to wash, dry, or rub. I hastily turn off the shower, grab my robe from the heated towel rack, and, as my fingers barely grasp the fabric, an incredibly violent shock pins me to the ground. A lightning-like electric shock travels through my body like a venomous poison, making its way from my pelvis along my chest to my chest, which gasps like a heart in distress. Under the effect of the stabbing pain, I briefly lose consciousness. It's the cold that wakes me up. I lie in a puddle of icy water. A few coconut shavings have drifted into my mouth; I almost choke, cough, finally spit out the intruder and find the strength to sit up. I now have water up to my ankles, and it keeps rising. An uncontrollable flow escapes from the drain. I pray to wake up from this nightmare, but the water level quickly reaches my belly. Then, in a surge of lucidity, I extricate myself from the powerful waves and, somehow, manage to cross the room bathed in an inexplicable calm velvet. I catch my breath at the threshold of the closed door. Still trembling, I listen. The silence is such that for a second, I consider turning back, making sure that all of this was just a hallucination. And then quickly, I regain my senses; I want to get away from this room as quickly as possible. I grab the handle with a nervous hand, my still damp fingers slide on the steel ball. Determined, I try again, grip it firmly, and this time, encounter no resistance. The ball turns in the void. Appalled, I keep turning, but with each rotation, the size of the handle seems to decrease. I stifle a scream. The handle is now nothing more than a tiny bead, an evanescent bubble with a dark and woody fragrance.