The fucking kitchen will never feel clean now.
I move off to the bathroom, trying to keep the worry of the germs in the back of my mind and not at the forefront, where they try desperately to be.
Bubbles bounces around the room, like the hooligan she is. I’ve noticed she only behaves this way with me, maybe because Dollie can give commands and requests, as opposed to me silently putting up with her shit.
Lifting my gaze from the dog, who tries to drag me around the room by the leg of my jeans, I spy Dollie in the kitchen. The mop in her hand is set aside as she takes a rag and some disinfectant to the cabinets.
I try not to smile, but I feel the strain on each scar as my lips lift.
Before she can look my way and get creeped out, I start running the bath for Bubbles.
Spinning the faucet handle to a nice warm temperature, I also manage to push the splinter deeper into my skin.
My fingers fail at gripping it, and I hope it’ll wiggle its way out beneath a band-aid.
I wash my hands and the bite, before applying the band-aid to the tip of my thumb. It’s one of Dollie’s. I hope she won’t mind sharing. Siblings are meant to do that, after all.
The unicorn design is hardly flattering on me, but I make do.
“You know…” I turn, finding Dollie in the doorway. “I’ve been using baby shampoo since dying my hair pink.” She lifts a little of her hair and twirls it around a finger. An almond-shaped nail with the exact same color sticks out at the top. “It should be safe for dogs and might help get out the tangles.”
I nod, agreeing with hope. Hope that I’ll get to keep all my fingers.
“It’s just there in the cabinet. The one in the yellow bottle.”
Collecting it, I make my way back to the bath and squeeze a little under the running water.
A whistle calls Bubbles to my side, but as my hands lock around her, attempting to lift her and place her in the water, she pushes back, sending us both to the floor.
I’m still rubbing my head when she’s halfway to the door.
Dollie blocks her exit, the big arms of her baggy hoodie barricading the frame. Bubbles skids in another direction, looking for another way out, but there isn’t one, and I catch her as she jumps at the unopened window.
Stepping inside and closing the door behind her, Dollie steps a little closer as I place Bubbles in the water.
A second later, she literally jumps over my head and launches at Dollie. Muddy paws press into her stomach. Dollie winces as she looks down at the once pastel pink garment, now mostly brown.
She turns away from me to lift her hem and check her stomach, not seeing me ask if she’s okay.
In another attempt, I corner Bubbles, who cowers in the corner of the room. I start slow, letting her sniff me and recognize me as someone who’ll never bring her harm. I smooth over her face and give her nose a little wiggle with mine, and then I wrap my arms around her. There’s no psychotic protest from her this time, and when I turn around with her in my arms, Dollie is staring at us, almost in awe.
Dollie moves to the bath before me. “Maybe it’s a little cold?” She checks the water with her hand. “No. It’s fine. She’s being dramatic.”
God, I wish I could talk to agree. For a dog that loves the rain and puddles, who’d have figured a bath would be this hard.
Gently setting her down in the half-full tub, she attempts to jump out again.
“No!” Dollie commands. Both her and my hands steady the dog, our fingertips brushing.
“I’m sorry.”
I shrug her off, my fingers still smoothing over dirty fur. The noise in my head grows louder because of it.
The urge to shove my head in the tub and drown out the noise grows as the whispers continue.
The germs on your skin will cause an infection, unless you splash Bubbles in the face three times.
I stare at my nervous girl, her nails scratching the bath edge, her head turned into Dollie’s scratching fingers, and her pretty eyes on me.
