I don’t care, I just keep washing

The door opens, but I can’t be bothered with that right now. I run the washcloth over my stained arms, rubbing off this weird gunk. There are footsteps, which in most cases would alarm me, but my brother sneaking in and watching me scrub myself in the shower is nothing to be concerned about.

John walks right up to the glass shower door, his breath making condensation on it. Whatever, I just keep wiping the sticky goo off and wringing it into the drain. It really stinks, but I can’t put my finger on what it smells like.