Midnight

The Nightshade Princess
2002-01-31 23:24:05 (UTC)

Beyond the Mirror... (another bathing story)

Scrubbing... the bleach is making breathing
difficult. As I rinse away all the grime from the "sacred
space," I hold what breath I can. Candles are gathered
quickly, so many shapes and colours. My long-handled torch-
lighter and the silver extinguisher I bought earler last
night I gather eagerly in my weary hands. The "temple" is
filled with sweet smelling, soft things; my thick, fluffy
robe of deep gray, some jasmine incense, and so many
candles. Slowly, the clear, hot water fills the pure,
modern tub and the tiny, private world of my bathroom warms
perceptably. This is my time, and, like a gentle high-
priestess, I solemnly begin adding the perfumed oils and
solutions to the bath, and setting up and lighting
candles. The black and white makeup is washed from my
face, and my shower gel and many exfoliators are arranged
alongside the tub. My cd player, too, is set up, along
with my favorate 10 or so music cds. A tall glass of cold
water is also added before the candles and incense are
ceremoniously lit and dreadful, garish light extinguished.
Music is begun. One last thing is retrieved, my robe
carefully wrapped around my delicate white skin.
Enter the goddess. It seems I have changed hats now,
my purpose simply to enjoy what has been set before me, to
revel in it's purity. There is something spiritual about
such ritualistic baths, with their luxurious warmth, their
fragrances, their attention to bodily care. The pure,
sweet fragrance of jasmine comingled with faint fruits, and
traces of wisteria and lilac, has a profound effect on me.
Gently, cold, skyclad (nude) flesh meets the (often too
warm) water and mounds of myriad sparkling bubbles. It has
begun. Father, when purchasing anything for my bathing
rituals, sees it fitting and well to be certain that they
are in the fragrance of jasmine. Particularly, he bought
me a set of Bath and Body Works night blooming jasmine. He
sees me more as jasmine than rose. I can understand
this... jasmine is a lovely flower of the purest white.
The variety that grows around the lattice of our deck has
blooms so delicate that they whither and become brown in
your hand in only a few minutes. I, too, am this fragile.
My skin, at its best, resembles the petals, smoothe and
pale. The fragrance that is so sweet brings to my mind the
comments I get from various people on my sweetness, on
my "manners" or they tell me how I am "such a dainy
thing!" Mother's best friend told me yesterday that I
reminded her of a fairy tale princess, with the same
extreme feminity, sweetnes, and innocent looking face.
They see me as so very innocent and pure... I bring such
perfumed water to my face and breathe deeply of it's
fragrance. Steam curls around my fingers when I take them
from the liquid heat and curl them around my water glass.
At first, this was shocking to me... such ghostly curls
rising from my tiny fingers. Now, I find it fascinating.
I watch the vapors dance in the dimly lit enclosure,
spirits in a sacred ritual. With all its solemn
preparation, all it's lovely tools and many many candles,
it does seem like worship. Potions, smoke, tiny open
flames that are so nearly alive, twisting and curling in
the air.
I grow faint from the heat, and my skin is now very
pink... if I didn't like this soft, translucent blush, I
would find it frightening. So very much blood now pulses
just beneath the surface. The garnet-coloured glass I use
just for these occasions, and the water inside cools me
somewhat, and I look at the incense. It is half gone.
In these hours (for I spend no less than an hour per
bath), a swoon comes over me. It is a powerful relaxation,
so powerful, my eyelids become heavy and the organs of
sight do not focus. A calm permeates, and with it comes a
peace with myself that I rarely see. I feel pampered, like
that fairy tale princess. I am powerful yet sweet and full
of grace, like a goddess being worshiped. In those hours,
I don't find this egotistical at all, and all of my
customary detatchment subsides.
The scented water glistens, as one of the gels I added
had shimmer stuff in it. I see myself beneath the surface,
with all the shadowy, faint distortion of the mirror's
reflection. I feel as though I am on the other side of the
glass this time, and that's just fine.