"godliness"

Gwendolyn Perkins

It was at three-thirty that morning that she took the first shower,
long before her father would awaken, before he would send his
thundering footsteps down the hallway past her room, before the
others would come to breakfast late as always, too late.

She spent the first half hour with the washcloth, scrubbing, tearing at the forbidden places, forcing the cloth in and out, in and out. Cleaning.

The end of the hour she spent with the razor. Shaving the hair carefully at first, then ripping, pulling, twisting. Every edge short, perfect, untouched. She bit her nails down, so far that they bled horribly. More than they should have.

That was the first shower.

Three others passed and the family stopped outside the bathroom
several times, listening to the water beat down, not hearing the tiny
whimpers of her feet on the linoleum. And they left.

The girl walked out and put on her white dress, walking down the
stairs and taking them one at a time. As she entered the dining
room and sat down and placed her hands on the table, the blood
trickled down the tablecloth, red on white.
Her mother asked why.
Her brother turned his face away.
Her father just looked.