My blood stained the freshly mopped floor again. My mother's scream came before my whimper. "Lily! How many times have I told you? Don't scratch! Don't let those disgusting fluids get everywhere!" She pointed the Lysol spray at me, treating me like I was some biohazard. I curled up on the floor in pain, sobbing softly. "Mom, it itches... I can't help it..." "If you can't help it, get the hell out!" To keep her from getting mad, I hid all the creams the doctor prescribed. Those greasy ointments would stain the sheets, and that would drive her crazy. Today was my seventh birthday. I used the pocket money I had saved for three years to buy her a whole box of her favorite Clorox bleach as a gift. I held the box, looking up at her with hope. "Mom, it's my birthday... My only wish is for you to hug me. Just once." She looked at my raw, oozing arms, her face turning pale with disgust. "Get away! Don't touch my gift with your filthy hands!" She kicked the box right out of my hands. The bottles shattered everywhere. The clear liquid soaked right through my thin dress. At that moment, I finally realized that in this spotless house, I was the only piece of trash.
My name is Lily. Lily Miller. The doctor said I have severe, generalized eczema. It's a skin condition that's almost impossible to cure. When the itching starts, it feels like a million fire ants are eating through my bones. I can't stop scratching. I scratch until it bleeds, it oozes yellow fluid, it scabs over, and then I scratch it open again. My skin has become thick, leathery, and covered in deep, bloody cracks. Mom hated my skin more than anything. She has severe OCD. Mysophobia, to be exact. The sofa covers, sheets, and curtains had to be washed and steam-sanitized every single week. Every object in the house had to be in its exact spot. Not even a millimeter off. I was the only mold, the only contaminant in her perfect world. She never touched me. When she handed me things, she would throw them from a distance. If a drop of my blood or fluid accidentally touched the furniture, she would immediately put on rubber gloves, scrub the spot with alcohol wipes over and over, and then spray half a bottle of disinfectant. All while muttering about how disgusting I was. So, when I brought her that box of Clorox, smiling and wishing her a happy birthday, I was actually terrified. She froze for a second, her brows knitting together. She looked at my arms holding the box. Pale yellow fluid was oozing out, sticking my sleeves to my raw skin. "Get away! Don't touch my gift with your filthy hands!" The kick was hard. The box flew, the bottles broke, and bleach splashed all over me. I sat on the floor, stunned. The wet fabric of my dress pressed against the open sores on my legs, sending a blinding, burning pain through my body. But I didn't cry. Because Mom looked like she was in even more pain than I was. She stared at the mess on the floor, her chest heaving. "Lily, you ruined my hardwood floor!" She rushed to the cleaning closet, grabbed a new mop, rags, and a bucket of water. She got down on her knees, scrubbing the glass shards and liquid over and over. I curled up in the corner, watching her frantic back, and whispered, "I'm sorry, Mom..." She spent the whole afternoon cleaning. First, she picked up every tiny piece of glass with a cloth. Then, she mopped the floor dozens of times until only the sharp scent of lemon Pine-Sol remained. Finally, she took off her rubber gloves, picked up my ruined dress along with the wet box, and threw them into the trash can outside. She didn't look at me once. That evening, Dad came back from a business trip. He carried a large, beautiful cake box. The moment he walked in, he smiled. "Lily, happy birthday! Look what I got you!" Mom walked out of the kitchen, her face dark. "What birthday? Look at what your precious daughter did today!" She pointed at a tiny, barely visible spot on the floor near the corner, slightly bleached by the Clorox. "She ruined my house!" Dad looked at the floor, then at me. I was in my pajamas, barefoot, smelling faintly of bleach. Dad sighed, walked over, and reached out to pat my head. Mom shrieked instantly. "Richard! Don't touch her! She was oozing pus again this afternoon! She's filthy!" Dad's hand froze in mid-air. He pulled a stack of cash from his wallet and handed it to Mom. "Clara, stop. Lily didn't do it on purpose. I'll hire someone to replace the floorboards, okay?" Mom took the cash, her expression softening slightly. "Fine." She turned back to the kitchen and brought out three plates. "No cake tonight. It's full of sugar and dairy. Unhealthy. Eat this." It was plain, unseasoned chicken breast and boiled broccoli. This was our standard dinner. Mom insisted that restaurant food was filthy. Everything in our house had to be simple and sterile. Dad looked at me, his eyes full of heartbreak. "Lily, I bought you that doll you wanted so badly." He pushed a beautifully wrapped box toward me. I stared at the gorgeous doll, but I didn't dare reach out. I looked up at Mom. Mom said coldly, "Stuffed toys collect dust and dust mites. It's not going in your bedroom. It stays in the living room cabinet." "And," she glared at me, "before you touch it, you wash your hands three times with the antibacterial soap." My hands couldn't handle soap. The doctor had warned us that my skin barrier was completely destroyed. Any harsh soap would make it worse. I lowered my head and whispered, "I don't want it, Dad." Dad's face tightened. "Clara, can you be reasonable for once? It's her birthday!" "I am being reasonable!" Mom's voice spiked. "Richard, if I didn't keep this house spotless, we'd be living in a dump! Your daughter's disease is because she's dirty! If she was as clean as me, she would've been cured long ago!" This was what I had heard my entire life. The doctors said my eczema was genetic, an immune system issue. But Mom was convinced it was because I was dirty. Dad looked like he wanted to argue, but he looked at me and swallowed his words. Silently, he put the doll back into the bag. My birthday dinner ended just like that. That night, I lay in bed, the itching absolutely agonizing. I didn't dare scratch. If I bled and ruined the sheets, Mom would lose her mind. I dug my fingernails deep into my palms, using a different kind of pain to distract myself. Just when I couldn't take it anymore, my door creaked open. Dad walked in. He held a tube of ointment—the new one the doctor prescribed today. "Lily, let me put some cream on you." He sat on the edge of my bed and unscrewed the cap. I immediately shrank back, shaking my head in terror. "No, Dad, we can't." "Why not?" "Mom will be mad... The ointment is greasy. It'll stain the sheets." Dad's eyes welled with tears. Looking at my skin, a patchwork of old scars and raw wounds, his voice cracked. "Oh, sweetie... you're sick. You need the medicine. If the sheets get dirty, I'll wash them." "It won't work," I whispered. "Mom will smell it." Mom had a nose like a bloodhound. Any unfamiliar scent would trigger her. "Dad... am I really that dirty?" Dad was silent for a long time. Then, with a raspy voice, he said, "You are not dirty, Lily. You are my beautiful, perfect little princess." He pulled me into a tight hug. His embrace was warm, smelling faintly of cologne and tobacco. It was the only scent in this house that didn't smell like bleach. I buried my face in his chest, and the tears I had held back all day finally poured out. But I didn't dare make a sound. I was too afraid Mom would hear.
The next morning, Dad was called away early by an urgent call from his office. Before leaving, he slipped the ointment under my pillow and begged me to use it. I stared at the tube for a long time. In the end, I pulled it out and hid it in a metal tin under my bed. That tin held every cream and ointment the doctors had ever prescribed. And a tiny diary. I opened the diary and scribbled a line with a pencil: *Mom doesn't like the smell of the cream. To make her happy, I won't use it anymore.* I thought that if I could just stay "clean," Mom would love me. She would hug me. But I was wrong. Without the medicine, my eczema flared up with a terrifying vengeance. Huge patches of my skin turned raw and blistered. The yellow fluid seeped into my clothes, gluing the fabric to my wounds. Every movement tore at my skin, sending white-hot pain through my body. I was terrified of Mom finding out. I started wearing long sleeves and pants, wrapping myself up tight. During meals, I sat as far away from her as possible. When I walked, I hugged the walls, terrified of accidentally brushing against her. But my behavior eventually made her suspicious. That Tuesday afternoon, our housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, came to clean. Mrs. Gable was the only person who wasn't afraid of my skin. When she used to cook for us, she would secretly make me soothing herbal teas to help with my skin. But Mom eventually fired her from full-time work, claiming she "wasn't thorough enough." She only allowed her to come once a week for deep cleaning. Mrs. Gable saw me bundled up in thick long sleeves, my face pale. She asked softly, "Lily, sweetie, are you feeling okay? Why are you wearing so many layers?" I shook my head, too scared to speak. Mom, who was vacuuming the rug, turned off the machine. "How could she be sick? She's just acting out again." She walked over, her sharp, critical eyes scanning me. "Lily, roll up your sleeves." "Mom, I'm... I'm cold." "The heater is on. How are you cold?" Mom sneered. "I'm going to count to three. One, two..." I began to tremble, tears brimming in my eyes. Mrs. Gable couldn't bear to watch. She tried to intervene. "Clara, maybe she's just feeling a bit under the weather. Let me take her to her room to change." "Mind your own business!" Mom grabbed my arm and yanked my sleeve up violently. The fabric dragged across my skin, exposing the horrific sight underneath. My entire forearm was a bloody mess. Swollen, raw, oozing yellow fluid, and crusted with thick, sickly scabs. It looked like rotting meat. "Ah!" Mom let out a bloodcurdling shriek and threw my arm away. She stumbled back, her face white. Mrs. Gable gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Oh my god! Lily! What happened to your arm?!" She reached out to check my wounds. But Mom blocked her, looking absolutely hysterical. "Don't touch her! She's covered in bacteria! It's contagious!" She pointed at me, her face twisted in pure disgust. "Lily! You disgusting monster! Why didn't you say anything?! Were you trying to turn my entire house into a petri dish?!" I shrank into a ball, sobbing and shaking my head. "Mom, no... I didn't..." "Don't lie to me!" Mom stormed into the bathroom, grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, unscrewed the cap, and poured it directly onto my raw arm. "AAAHHH!" A piercing scream tore from my throat. The alcohol soaked into the open flesh. It felt like a thousand white-hot needles stabbing into my bones. I thrashed on the floor, weeping and hyperventilating. "Mom! It hurts! Please, it hurts so bad!" "It's supposed to hurt! I'm sterilizing you! I won't let you spread your filth in my house!" Terrified, Mrs. Gable lunged forward and wrestled the bottle out of Mom's hands. "Clara! Are you insane?! Stop it! You're going to kill her!" "Get off me!" Mom shoved Mrs. Gable away. "This is my house! I am disciplining my daughter! You have no right to interfere!" Mrs. Gable stumbled, nearly falling over. She looked at my frantic, maniacal mother, and then at me, writhing in agony on the floor. Her eyes filled with tears. "Clara, you can't keep doing this! Lily needs to go to the hospital! You are going to kill her!" "Kill her?" Mom laughed, a cold, chilling sound. "Look at her! She's a curse living like this! I am saving her! I am making her clean!" She threw the alcohol bottle aside, ran back to the cleaning closet, and pulled out a heavy, stiff-bristled scrub brush. "I am going to scrub this filth off your body once and for all!" When I saw that brush, my heart stopped. That was the brush she used to scrub the toilet tile grout. The bristles were as stiff as steel wire. She wanted to use that on my open wounds. "No! Mom! Please! No!" I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, desperately trying to get away. Mrs. Gable threw herself at Mom's legs, crying out, "Clara, please! I beg you! Stop! She's your own daughter!" "So what?!" Mom shrieked, completely detached from reality. "My life cannot have any stains! She is the biggest stain of all!" She kicked Mrs. Gable away and advanced toward me, raising the brush. I squeezed my eyes shut, completely hopeless. Right then, the front door slammed open. It was Dad. He took in the scene, freezing in shock. The next second, he roared like a wounded animal. He charged forward, ripped the brush out of Mom's hand, and threw it across the room. "Clara! What the actual fuck are you doing?!" His roar shook the walls. Mom was stunned by his rage, standing frozen. Ignoring her, Dad dropped to his knees, gently scooping me into his arms. The moment he saw my bloody, raw arms, tears streamed down his face. "Lily... my sweet Lily..." He held me tight, sprinting out of the house like a madman. "Mrs. Gable, call 911!" That was the last thing I heard before everything went black.
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