Stains

07 Dec

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.”

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