Don't Drink Bees

Davis had told me my innerself would come out if I drank. He was right. There it was before me. I dragged my perspiring body up into a standing position, leaned against the cool, tiled wall, reached out a tentative hand, and flushed my innermost self down the toilet. Semi-digested potato chips lay at the center of my being. What a revelation.

I tore off a sheet of toilet paper and moved it across my face. Blush came together with eye shadow, mascara, and lip gloss to form a colorful Rorschach blot. Well, doctor, I see on this page a girl who has lost her mind along with her chips. I tossed the tissue in the toilet bowl and flushed again.

What the hell am I doing here? What am I trying to prove? I didn't recognize the girl in the medicine cabinet mirror hung above the sink. If this is the real me, Davis.. God help me. I washed one hand at a time, supporting myself with the other. It was slow work - especially since I miscalculated the pressure I put on the soap dispenser and pumped out enough for a bubble bath. I couldn't get the foam off my hands and off both faucets and remain in an upright position.

A knock at the door startled me, and in trying to catch myself, I bumped the dispenser. It fell and white soap oozed across the floor towards my naked feet. Oh, well. At least something would be clean in the morning.

Another knock. "Hey! I've got a patron for the Porcelain God!"

"Take 'em downstairs." I slapped my hands against fuzzy blue towels, leaving two streaks of soapy residue.

"Can't. Occupied. Hurry up!"

I fumbled with the door. Funny. I couldn't find the catch. Then, I realized it was unlocked. "What the hell." I pushed it open.

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