Note: I’m exploring dark fiction, so please don’t set me up for an intervention or psychiatric help.
Two… four… six…
I remember how it all started. It was the day I decided my hands weren’t clean enough. It went on for a while until my parents started doubting my long hours in the bathroom. It was bad, them finding me scalding my hands in the sink. Sometimes, they had to open the door for me because I’d be too afraid to touch the doorknob. I’ve lived with OCD for twenty more years after that, and I can’t say how many times I felt like giving up.