Dial Antibacterial Soap

He pushed the needle through my navel and I thought shit, that's impossibly large, too terribly thick to break through someone's flesh. I could actually hear the skin puncture and rip. Tears pooled in my eyes and I watched a thin line of brown blood trickle down to the opening of my underpants.

Well, that was done. Now, clean it three times a day, he said. I couldn't even see his lips move under his moustache. Maybe it wasn't even him talking. His arms bulged and were covered with ink, like shoulder to wrist. But his fingers were immaculate. My head pulsed with adrenaline. I gingerly touched the tiny blue ring. Ow.

Use this, and he handed me a little bottle of Dial antibacterial soap. The orange kind. It smelled clean. Like it'd protect me, keep my belly button from exploding into a pus-covered infection. Don't let your boyfriend lick you there for at least a week, he said, and stuck out his tongue. Yeah, thanks, I won't, I said, getting up. My legs were rubbery.

The following week I went on a train with my family to visit my dying grandfather.
My head was so far up my own ass, I'm ashamed of my behavior now.
It was the first time in probably ten years my parents, sister and I had taken this 18 hour ride together to Florida. We were banging into each other and tense, but not arguing, not actually saying anything.

I'd methodically go to the bathroom several times a day and wash my navel with my special orange soap. I couldn't even turn around in there, but somehow managed. It gave me something to do.

It burned so badly I couldn't button my pants.

The three of them would watch me as we sat in the dining car, engaged in a quiet, familiar battle. I poked boiled potatoes with my fork, mashed up baked fish, pushed everything to the outside rim of the plate, to make it look like I'd actually eaten some of it. We know what you're doing, they said. I'm not doing anything, I replied. I'm not hungry. This food is gross.
We'll get you something else, they said. How about dessert?
I looked at them like they were crazy.

I went to the club car and smoked Marlboro Lights.

And I washed my stupid bellybutton.

At my grandfather's house, I bought several containers of sugar free General Foods International Cappuccino...it was thick and creamy and I could make it with water but somehow it felt like sustenance, and I liked the caffeine buzz. I smoked and smoked out on my grandfather's porch. I didn't even really talk to him. This was the last time I'd ever visit his house with him alive in it.

Why does she do that, he asked my father. Can you ask her at least to close the door.
I sat out by the pool and smoked. I took the car out for hours. Every dinner was an adventure in avoidance. An angry dance I'd have with my parents. I'll win, I thought. I always won at this. I was angry, so angry. I'm still not sure at whom or why. I guess mostly at myself, because I was the target of so much of my venom, so much fucking hate.

I went to bed with the sweet smell of orange soap in my skin, feeling elated as tiny balloons of air popped in my stomach. I admit that I loved it. I know it's wrong, but I did. And that's crazy.