By Megan Finsel
“It won’t come out,” she said, and I could hear panic in her voice.
“Just scrub harder.”
From the sound of the splashing liquid hitting the tile, I could imagine she was slapping it against the side of the tub.
“What do I do if it’s permanent?”
I rolled my eyes. “You wear it just like everyone else does.”
“But what will they think of me?”
Humans, you’re so insecure; you always let the opinions of others define you. “No one will notice unless they truly know you,” I said, “and then they won’t care.”
She was crying; I could hear her sobs from under the bathroom door. I sighed. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Not that bad?” The door swung open and she stood there, bearing before her the shimmering piece of herself. I could recognize her soul even though it had a very red, very obvious, stain in the middle.
“It’s still there!” Her voice quivered. “I ran out of good deeds to wash it with.” Behind her, I saw the bathroom was a mess; iridescent bubbles floated on the floor. “What do I do?”
I shook my head. “This is a part of life. We make mistakes, and souls stain. Sometimes we can wash them out, sometimes we can’t. Go iron it, it’ll be fine.”