Soap

DAY ONE

Existence. Who am I? A creamy bar, sudsy. Size and shape: pear-esque. My side engraved tastefully in flowing font, Dove. It comes to me in a flash: soap. 

I am soap. But not just any soap. I will be the greatest bar of soap this world has ever seen. You may think I’m braggadocious, but you’re wrong. I can feel it in me, aching to cleanse the world of its stench and detritus. Greatness.

I can already see it now, headlines proclaiming: “soap cleans up D.C.” Sure, that’s a different kind of cleaning, but I think with the right campaign manager and a modest budget targeted towards middle America, I can make some waves.

They’re putting me into a package. No description on it. Lesser soap might find that unnerving. Not me. I know I’m headed for greatness, no matter the box I come out of. 

Oh, it’s quite dark in here. 

DAY TWO

I sense movement. We’re being delivered. Excitement courses through me. Step one begins today. 

They take me out of a box, and I look around my new home. Some sort of governmental building for sure. Excellent. There are all sorts of big walls and watch towers to keep ne’er do wells out. 

What are those people in orange jumpsuits doing?

Oh God. 

DAY THREE 

It is as I feared. I am prison soap. 

Oh well, perhaps a more lowly position than I assumed, but nevertheless, I will overcome these gray walls. Oh look, somebody’s coming to pick me up. Oh heavens, I can smell him from here. He’s on me. I’m being raised into the air.

Put me down you rapscallion, Put me down I say! 

He does not listen. 

He scrubs. 

I cry.

I clean the filth better than he deserves and am placed on a ledge. 

I shudder within myself. I have seen horrors today. 

DAY FOUR 

Shower time again. I brace myself for what I will endure. 

A grubby paw lifts me up; SQUIRT! 

I’m flying through the air. 

I hope for death; tile greets me. Water courses around me: circling and swirling towards the drain. I glance upwards, hoping to get my bearings. 

Horror of horrors. I have seen the angel of death. I stare up at the ungodly view above me, it stares right back. 

I wait for the hands to grab me, suddenly desperate to return to the cleansing I once found torturous. Nothing reaches for me. They don’t even look at me. I lay on the prison shower tile and cry my soapy tears, confounding the water with my ethereal white.

I am alone.

DAY FIVE

The drain looms ever closer.

I could have washed the president’s ass you fools.

I flow into the drain.