My Greatest Fear

            Washcloths absolutely make my skin crawl. I know it’s weird. Most people are afraid of spiders, snakes, or rats; but for me, the slimy texture and menacing shape of a washcloth is enough to make me quiver. When my mother and I wash the dishes, I have to dry.

            Most of the time, washcloths hide in the dark corners of cupboards and cabinets where I never see them, but when they do find me, I am usually naked and vulnerable, mostly when I’m in the shower. They appear in the corner, or hanging from a towel rack, dripping water on to the floor tiles. Sometimes, I imagine them slithering up my leg and wrapping their bodies around my thighs. Other times, I fear they will drop onto my face, blinding me as they run cold, greasy water down my throat. When they become old and worn, threads begin to hang down off of them like strands of a witch’s hair. In my mind’s eye, those threads are tentacles that will entrap me and ooze across my back.

            I know not why this irrational fear began in me, but my imagination certainly doesn’t help to alleviate it. A few years ago, following an evening during which I drank too much Mountain Dew, I experienced the worst nightmare of my life. I stood in a massive, dimly-lit chamber with a low ceiling from which hung hundreds of washcloths of all colors. The rags dangled like lynched corpses. As I moved, they brushed up against my hair, and icy water dripped onto my head and shoulders before trickling down my torso and finally collecting on my fingertips. My eyes darted around. There was no exit.

            Finally, I started to run. The pace of my breathing quickened. But no matter how fast I sprinted, I couldn’t escape the forest of washcloths. In the corner of my eye, I watched one drop from the ceiling and plop onto the stone floor. I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was barefoot. The hair on my legs stood on end. Then a cloth in front of me dropped, then another to my left. Soon, all the washcloths began to splatter to the ground and slither my way. They were faster than me and I couldn’t escape them. Then I tripped and fell. The slimy swarm surged across me. They covered my eyes. I felt them slinking around my neck. Finally, one of the monsters crawled onto my lips, covering my mouth. I could not scream. The washcloth then entered my throat, choking me. Unable to breath, I awoke in a cold sweat.

            Because of my fear, I can’t trust any fabric. A washcloth could be any old rag: my favorite shirt from when I was three, a piece of an old pillowcase I used to sleep on, or any other old, rejected textile. Washcloths are outcasts, rejects – mercenaries. They simply hide in dark corners, waiting for a tedious cleaning job that may never come. They are sad and useless, their best days behind them. When I was younger, I used to fear they would attack me. Now, I fear their very nature. Washcloths are throw-away items, unloved and unneeded. I used to have more fear of what they would do to me; but now, my greatest horror is that I might one day become one.