Ravital Goldgof

Cleansed

Ravital Goldgof

The room is white, whiter than anything else in this world, whiter than the light people see when they die and as bright as a baby’s skin before they have been exposed to the world. Tom, walking in, lets his eyes adjust to the area as best they could. He isn’t quite sure they ever would. Peeling off his clothes layer by layer, Tom allows his skin to feel the humid air. A stream of liquid dirt hits his body. He watches as a draft carries the scent of manure around the confined space. The little particles drift along, as if carried on a slow-moving invisible cloud. The particles hit the wall, becoming trapped by the wall’s sticky texture. “What a sad, short life these specs live,” Tom reflects.

He lathers in the dirt-sprinkled mud, letting the gelatinous material cover his boy. Tom looks down to see his generally light skin darken to a shade of brown that the whole room is assuming. He pushes his palm into a nearby lever, allowing his other hand to catch the soil that slowly pumped out. Rubbing it into his unruly mane, he lets the sludge run down his face and chest. It slides down his body, collecting in piles by his feet that he pays little attention to. Tom sees a gleam of silver coming from his razor. Slightly dulled from use, he drags the razor across his jawline. Several nicks later, he finishes. Tiny spots of red lay in heaps below him. He grabs bits of sand and places them firmly on his face, cauterizing the small wounds.

The liquid halts in its steady flow. Tom reaches for the nearest cloth, wrapping it around himself. Walking to the door, he drops the cloth as he steps beyond the threshold. Putting his hand on a large black button, he glances back once more into the room. It is no longer that blazing