Trying out "Three Word Wednesday" =)
The words: abuse, cramp, hatred.
The first sign was dull. A familiar cramp in her lower abdomen and she stiffened, ever so slightly, a frown marring her delicate features.
Calmly she finished whisking the lemon cream she was preparing for her grand dessert, rinsed the whisk and put it in the sink. She put cling film over the bowl and placed it in the fridge, second shelf. The frown deepened.
As she hung her apron on its hook on the door, she felt the cramps intensify. She closed her eyes and took a moment to longingly sniff her beautifully starched apron, its lavender scent soothing her.
But there was no turning back now. The corners of her mouth twitched uncontrollably as she walked towards the bathroom.
She undressed. No clothes would be soiled by the toilet. She tied her hair in a firm bun in the back of her neck. From a cupboard she took out a blue bath sponge, a bottle of transparent nail polish and a roll of paper tape. Carefully she opened the bottle of nail polish and painted a small amount on the rough side of the sponge. She left the bottle open on the washbasin, the strong scent emerging from it seemed purifying. She pressed the soft side of the sponge to her face, covering her mouth and nose with it, then she wrapped the paper tape around her head, securing the sponge with it. The smell of nail polish was overwhelming, dizzying, and evoked her intense gratitude.
The cramps were becoming impossible to resist and with a profound feeling of hatred she filled the clean toilet bowl with paper, its shiny surface would not be touched by… it. She sat down, closed her eyes, pressed her hands against her stomach and inhaled her chemical relief. Then she let the enema do its job.
She shivered with disgust as she wiped herself, flushed and cleaned. Scrubbed, cleaned, scrubbed.
Abuse, she thought, this is abuse. Why? Why these repulsive needs? To be nothing more than a slave under the filth of this despised flesh.
Back in the kitchen she continued with the preparations for the dessert, the red skin on her hands burning from the scrubbing. She forced herself to breathe slowly, composed herself and pushed back the memories of her previous actions to some obscure place in her brain. At least, she thought, there´s now a whole week until I´ll have to go through it again.