Lather, Rinse, Repeat



I pry my eyes open on yet another Monday morning, my arm leaden as I reach to turn off the screeching alarm. Every move that follows feels like an echo of what was once familiar; I shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed in silence. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

But the routine does little to distract from my sister’s empty bed in the room across from mine. Can the dead own anything? Can they, when all that is left of them in the world of the living is just fragments and poor imitations of who they were? It is just a bed now; it belongs to no one. 

Downstairs, the television is on low volume, the pixels of the box always alive with the likeness of one impassioned man or another yelling about some pressing societal issue. Today’s commentator is beet red, bearing great resemblance to an inflated balloon. The inhumane killing of defenseless babies… his voice fades away when I switch the TV off. I pour cereal into a bowl; Mom sets a package on the table. 

“Your new rounds came,” she says. “Don’t forget to reload your Glock before school. I’m sick of having to remind you every day.” 

I nod, silently staring at the flakes of my cereal that float in a sad puddle of milk in my spoon. I drift. Do they know what is coming? Are they afraid? Of course they don’t, so of course they are not afraid. All they know is the tiny world of the puddle as they swim around furiously within it.

When she swings her purse around her shoulder, Mom tucks a 9mm into the waist of her suit pants and covers it with the flap of her jacket, prim and proper as always. She is halfway out the door when she pauses.

“And make sure you don’t forget your silencer. I’ve received too many emails from the school about noise disturbances during class. Have a good day at school, sweetie.” 

The door slams behind her, leaving me alone. I wash my bowl before reloading my piece and tucking a threaded barrel into the pocket of my backpack. 

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Arriving at school, I am greeted with the familiar sight of the teacher uniform: a black Kevlar vest and a ballistic helmet, both inscribed with the school logo. Just a few years ago, the juxtaposition might have been strange. Now, we are only numb. 

I had barely sat down in homeroom before the intercom crackled to life with the voice of the school principal.

“Good morning. By now, you all may have heard of the incident that occurred last week. A student was caught with an AK-47, a clear violation of the list of permitted firearms. Check out our website for more details and remember: always bring an arm to avoid bodily harm!” After the announcement, the day resumes as usual. 

At lunch, a fight erupts. How, and for what reason are questions nobody seems to ask anymore. As gunshots rip through the air, I hold my steel lunch tray in front of my head (for the stray bullets) and attempt to continue my meal with my free hand. But the food turns to cardboard in my mouth. I imagine I feel the weight of a steel barrel pressed into my head, the cool metal sending a shock to my warm face. The Glock in my waistband seems to pulse, a reminder that it is there. My fingers twitch. 

A glinting object in the background returns me to the maelstrom in front of me. It is the sunlight reflecting off another student’s tray. It is only then that I see the others like me, all around me, holding trays up as they continue to eat. There are no jeering crowds, no excited whispers, only averted gazes and questions written on their faces. When will we be next? But I know, when the bell rings, we will all calmly walk to our next class. We will all be afraid. We will all pretend we are not. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Laying in my bed that night, I think of the boy in the hospital, injured from the lunchtime fight. I think of all the other kids in the cafeteria, trying their best to look away. Trying their best to stay alive. But most of all, I think of the empty bed across the hall and I think of my sister. My sister, who was shot three times in school, where she was supposed to be safe. My sister, who has become another talking point for the angry men on TV. My sister, who is gone forever. Every day we try to clean away our guilt and discontent and memory. But how long will it take for us to realize that the blood on our hands won’t wash off?

Lather, rinse, repeat.