SPECIAL: soce scrubs his hands.. like A LOT

ANYWHERE: It's true. I couldn't stop staring at him, but mostly at his hands. They were withered husks of hands; no more dead skin; all the skin was alive. It made me write poetry, but not about his hands. Nope, I wrote about the stars and the sun and the sky. I read it to my girlfriend. She thought it was beautiful.

We went back to the sink, and he was still there. I was absolutely flabbergasted. We asked him to leave. It was our turn now. To wash. Our hands. In the sink. We cried. We hugged. We begged. Still, he would not leave. Ever eternally, he remains. Washing his hands.