Soap

A commissioned piece from 2019. My client graciously gave me the permission to post it on my portfolio. Enjoy!

“-with halted investigations. Police said any other disruptive attempts will be charged with a criminal offense. Due to a recent surge of hobby detectives, the crime scenes are now taped off and the public trail will now be closed until further notice.”

Poking my head into the living room, I chuck a spoon at the back of my sister’s head, “Turn it off!”

“Hey! Watch it,” she yells back, glaring, “someone’s touchy today. Wittle baby didn’t get his nappy nap?”

Making a disgusted noise at her hyena laugh, I grab my plate of leftovers and head upstairs. As a force of habit, I quickly scroll through the website before even settling down.

Not a single new comment.

Great.

Ripping into a sad turkey breast, I stare at my screen sullenly. The odd disappearances in our local hiking spot was a gold mine, but as soon as police shut it down, everyone lost interest.

I scroll up to my video, staring but not really seeing the intro that I’ve probably watched a thousand times. I have planned to make a series out of this, milking it until it goes dry, but that definitely isn’t going to happen now. I haven’t had any ideas for new content. It would take some time for research, but I don’t want to lose the audience I just gained.

My phone starts buzzing, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Hey, Steve.”

“Whassap homeboy? Still brooding over your stuff?”

I scowl at his tone, “Not cool, man.”

Not deterred by the annoyance in my tone, Steve barrels on, “Hey, have you heard about this chick’s new hipster shop next town?”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You’re looking for new materials, aren’t you? This is new, fresh, and I bet she won’t turn down some free exposure.”

“Are you telling me to go make an ad??”

I have half a mind to hang up on him. Seemingly able to read my mind, Steve hastily squawks out, “Well, no, but listen! That chick’s shop only sells soap! Soap, in the middle of nowhere! Isn’t that weird?”

“I’ve heard weirder things. You said it yourself, she’s a hipster, hipsters do crazy shit.”

“But get this: She makes everything herself, cooking the soap and all that. And it’s actually becoming a nice roadside attraction.”

“Still doesn’t help me and my problems.”

“What if you go over there and make a nice video of it? Maybe you can share to one of those pages...uh, I dunno, Ladbible or some shit? You can make a good buck off of it, and who knows? Your video can go viral!”

Steve really doesn’t get what my channel is about, doesn’t he? But despite my foul mood, he seems so excited to help, I don’t have the heart to tell him to screw off.

“Alright, I’ll have a look into it, ok?”

“Awesome! Catch you around!”

Hanging up, I shake my head incredulously. Looking back at my computer, I crack my knuckles. Time for some research.

~~~~~~~~~~

Unbelievable.

I stare at the numbers, and feel my mood sinking with them. The comments don't help either.

"so unoriginal why do ppl think they can take something already done and run with it????? Clearly copied the Unsolved series YouTube pls copystrike"

"This is so overdone lol"

"u suck lmao"

"Unsubscribed. Knew it was too good to last."

People don't take well to popular ghost stories that have been covered hundreds of times. Especially when it was just made into a terrible Hollywood horror movie. I knew this was a bad idea, but I couldn't leave my channel empty for too long.

People want to see something fresh. Original ideas. But nothing is original when everything has already been done somewhere in the world.

Frustrated and defeated, I shutdown my screen and stormed off for a snack. Ignoring my sister and mom in the living room, I rifle through our cupboard in silent anger.

“-the end of the situation for now. In other news, let’s welcome our special guest of the week, Mari Baines!”

Why do they have to turn the volume so loud all the time? Rolling my eyes so hard they almost stuck at the back of my head, I try to find my favorite pack of snacks.

Of course it’s not where it's supposed to be. My pig of a sister must have snatched the last one to spite me. A peek into the living room confirms it.

“Hey! Come sit with us! You’ve been holed up upstairs the whole day!”

And of course my mom would spot me with her eagle eyes. Biting back a sigh, I try to convince myself that maybe a little distraction would help. I really don’t need to stew on whatever idiocy is going on over the Internet right now.

My sister’s leer makes me regret that thought immediately.

“Out of the cave, eh Batman?”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t take it out on me. Not my fault your little endeavor didn’t go over so well. Or should I say …investigation?”

Hackle raised, I’m about to yell at her stupid face when my mom interjects.

“What endeavor?”

Not wanting to get into this discussion now, I cut in before my sister’s big mouth could trash the entire day. Not that it hasn’t been trashed already, but I don’t need my entire family scrutinizing on me right now.

“Just something I’ve been doing with my friends. What are you guys watching?”

“Oh,” blinking, my mom’s eyes dart back to the TV, “just the local news. They’re having a report on local businesses. To support the community, you know?”

“Not just any businesses,” my sister snorts, “it’s Mari’s Bubbles Emporium! She’s like the youngest business owner in the next five towns, and her stuff is really trending!”

I snicker at her obvious fangirling, “Trending on what? This side of town’s Facebook group?”

That earns me an immediate glare, “At least she manages to gain followers.”

I have half a mind to throw a fruit at her, but my mom would probably not appreciate that. Biting back a rude exclamation, I ignore my sister’s triumphant huff and turn back to the TV.

The smiling blonde interviewer is poking her mic a bit too aggressively at a young woman, who looks like she would rather be anywhere but on the show. Where they are looks like a 70’s convenient store, completed with crate shelves, wax papers and a bazillion industrial light bulbs on the ceiling.

“Thanks, Darla. I ... uh, I started out because it was difficult to find the right soap for my skin, and I know a lot of people have similar issues. So I-”

“That’s so cute! I know I don’t have it, but so thoughtful of you!”

“Uh ... Thanks?”

My mom clicks her tongue, “That was so rude! She should have let the poor girl finish!”

But I am more concerned about something else, “Hold up. Bubbles Emporium? This doesn’t happen to be that weird handmade soap shop, isn’t it?”

My sister makes a face, “Uh, yeah. Duh.”

Ignoring her sarcastic tone, I mutter, mostly to myself, “Didn’t know it’d actually make the local news. Hmmm ...”

Maybe Steve is onto something here. Maybe this is the “something fresh” I have been looking for.

After all, I don’t have to like it to make it, right?

Rushing upstairs, I ignore my family’s questions, mind forming a plan.

~~~~~~~~~~

It took some back and forths, but I’m finally on the road.

Despite her awkwardness on the show, Mari has proven to be very pleasant and professional over our email exchanges, which eventually turned into texts. She does come off a bit shy, and it took me a whole week to convince her to do an interview. I wasn’t too surprised about that. She didn’t exactly have a good experience with her last one. Mari doesn’t want to make a “big deal” out of the video I’m pitching, and she was hoping to keep things quiet until it goes live.

“I’ve got a lot of unwanted attention from the broadcast ... I just ... don’t want more of it until it’s necessary ... sorry …”

To be honest, I’m fine with that as well. Aside from being able to gloat at my sister, there are a lot of risks. Making a commentary video about a local business is a lot different from my usual contents, and I really don’t want other people to have a poke at it until it’s up and running.

And so, I arrive at the famous Bubbles Emporium at 8 am on a sleepy Friday morning. Mari Baines stands behind one of her glass windows, pale hands wrung together and a searching gaze on her big green eyes. Her dark hair flutters as she comes to greet me, a bashful smile on blushing lips. We get the formal exchanges out of the way, and Mari beckons me inside, showing me her shop.

“I’m sorry for doing this to you,” she begins as we approach the first shelf, “I know you mentioned your sister is a ... uh, fan …”

I wave Mari off, inspecting a block of soap wrapped in brown wax paper, Mari’s Bubbles Emporium printed with bold letters on top, “Don’t worry about her. She would have bugged me to hell and back to come if she’d known. And I don’t think either of us would appreciate that.”

Mari’s nervous chuckle is a delicate confirmation, “Still, I’d like to make it up to you somehow …”

Nice, isn’t she? “It’s alright. Giving me this opportunity is enough.”

Mari doesn’t look all that convinced, but she drops the subject in favor of introducing me to her products. In just under fifteen minutes, I see more soaps than I have my entire life. Soap bars, hand soap, dish soap, wash up soap, soap arts, shampoo, bodywash, facial wash ... There’s even a squiggly jelly soap that’s apparently Mari’s best-seller. Even though my head spins, I try to be an attentive reporter and take pictures of everything she presents to me.

Finally, we reach the end of the shop, and Mari leads me inside to the staff room for a sit down.

“Sorry, I know that was a lot,” the nervousness that evaporated during my tour returns, “would you like some tea? Coffee?”

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for. And a coffee would be nice, please.”

Mari shuffles around the tiny counter for our drinks, coming around with two steaming mugs and a cute woven basket of sugar and creamer packets. Hands hugging her tea, Mari seems to curl into herself as she speaks again.

“So ... What do you think? I know this isn’t what you ... uh, normally report on …”

Putting down a creamer, I consider my answer carefully, “It’s not, but it’s also interesting. I mean, it’s always good to branch out, right?”

That rewards me with a smile, “That is true ... If I didn’t branch out, I wouldn’t have been here.”

“Of course. Would you mind if we do the interview now?”

Mari blinks up at me, surprise in her wide eyes, “N-now?? I thought ... I thought we were going to have some time to ... uh ... prepare first?”

The flabbergasted look on my face has her wilting, “So-sorry! It’s just I …”

Rubbing her elbows, Mari frowns, “It’s just I never really ... I’ve never really like pictures or videos ... It’s my skin. I ... You see, I used to not have healthy skin at all and it’s uh ... It’s just ... gross.”

So she’s conscious of her appearance. That’s a set back, but I’m not exactly surprised. I guess I just have to work around it.

“That’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Would you be comfortable working on a voice-over interview then?”

“Would you be ok with that?”

“Absolutely!”

Nodding, Mari ponders for a moment, before her smile returns, “I have an idea. Why don’t you film my shop, and then my workshop? I can narrate over it, you know ... about the process, the story and ingredients ... It would be easier for me, and I’m sure it would save a lot of time for you too!”

That doesn’t sound half bad at all. We decide to do a shoot as if I have just entered the shop. I draft out the questions I would like her to answer, and Mari would talk behind the camera as I zoom into the shop’s products.

“Since I was a little kid, I couldn’t use any commercial soap brands. The chemicals they put in there would irritate my skin. Rashes, flaky skin, even dry cuts and whiteheads. It was always a chore to find something that’s even remotely passable. I went to school to be a doctor. Minor in biochemistry. My parents always wanted me to become a surgeon.”

She chuckles, as if the idea itself is preposterous, “But what kind of doctor would I be if I can’t even cure myself?

The idea of making my own soaps came to me when I was up one day, trying to cram for finals, but ended up procrastinating. I saw this video of people making incredible soap arts, and I thought to myself … 'Whoa, if people can do this, maybe I can as well'. My biochemistry studies came in handy, and I did a ton of research into soapmaking and the history of it.

And now that I’ve started ... I just can’t stop. Bubbles Emporium has become my life now. And each product is like my blood children. Not only this has helped my conditions, it has helped so many customers who’ve come across us too!”

We reach the end of the store then, and Mari signals me to stop.

“Cut! That’s brilliant, Mari! All in one take!”

Blushing under my compliments, she rubs her elbows with a nervous laugh, “Tha-thank you! I guess I’m more ... eloquent when I don’t have to ... uh ... stare at someone?”

“Well, whatever it is, keep at it! So, what’s next?”

“Shall we go to my workshop? It’s not too far from here. Uhm ... My shop assistant should be here soon. Uhm ... Do you mind getting over there first? It’s not too far ...”

“No problem, just give me the address.”

Since Mari has to arrange the day with her assistant, I decide to take a walk. Mari’s workshop turns out to be a barn three miles away from town, nestled in the middle of what looks to be a tree farm. It's quaint and unassuming, just like the rest of this area. There is a small herb garden and a glasshouse adjoining to the patch of land, probably where Mari grows and harvests her own ingredients.

The sounds of crunching gravel and car engine alerts me of her arrival. After waving off her profuse apologies for being late, I wait for Mari to open a series of locks on the door.

"We ... uh, we don't have securities here," Mari sighs, finally pushing the door open, "sometimes the local kids come prodding ... and I ... I really don’t want anything breaking …”

“Of course now. All this stuff is your baby, right?”

A small smile flits across her lips, “Yes ... They are.”

Before going in, Mari hands me a pair of silicone gloves, a hair net and a face mask. To keep the workshop sanitized, she says.

I was expecting to see a mini factory in there. Insteads, there are just wooden barrels and hemp sacks stacking everywhere. It almost looks like a winery, if not for the metal tubes connecting the biggest barrels.

With Mari’s approval, I begin to film again. She shows me the inside of a sack, filled with some kind of dried brown fruits.

“I found my solution in the soapberries,” picking up a handful under the lens, “these are all natural 'soap'. When combined with water, the fruit gives off a gentle, creamy lather. For thousands of years, soapberries have been used in Ayurvedic dermatology for sensitive skin and as a healing soap. Do you know, soapberries have a pH level of 5.5, which is perfect for human skin, unlike manufactured soaps which are generally between 6 to 9?”

I let Mari drones on, making plans to cut and edit some of it out. People won’t be interested in so much statistics. I don’t think they would be invested in most of the whole process either. This would be a much simpler video, following a much simpler format than what I usually use.

I snap back to attention when Mari moves again, heading towards one of the giant barrels in the back.

“This is where we soak and well, 'harvest' the lather, in simplest term.” She gestures to a step ladder, and pulls open the lid to show me the inside of the vat. I almost did a double take.

The liquid in the barrel is a yellowish brown color, with some sad suds floating around along with the berries and shards of residues. And definitely doesn’t smell like soap at all.

“This ... uh, this smells weird.”

Mari blinks, “People are subjected to and got used to the chemical compounds of commercial soaps as children. This definitely isn’t your typical soap.”

“I guess you haven’t incorporated the fragrances into it yet, right? Because it really looks and smells gro- ... I mean not like soap.”

Instead of answering me, Mari’s eyes dart down to the camera, “Are you still rolling?”

“Oh! Shoot,” I hit stop on the screen, feeling sheepish, “sorry, can we film that again? I can edit it later, but it’s probably better if we refilm this part.”

Nodding, Mari quietly descends the ladder as I fluster like an idiot. Should have kept my mouth shut after being able to maintain professionalism for so long. We film the barrel again, this time with me being quiet as a mouse.

For the final part of the tour, Mari leads me to the back room, which happens to be her lab. This place is a crisp contrast to the rest of the place, with metallic counters and high-tech equipment along the walls. Mari points to a large empty island in the middle of the room.

“That’s where we sample our ingredients. Mostly the perfumes, herbs and other ingredients. I usually do everything myself, and all samples are handpicked. I source all ingredients and materials locally, except for the berries themselves, which are shipped from overseas. In fact, some of the herbs come straight out of my garden.”

As I do a round in the lab to make sure I have everything on camera, Mari opens a cupboard and brings out a series of corked vials and test tubes, all filled with some kind of oil or liquid, each labelled with a test number. She arranges them in a line along the island, then tells me to turn off the video.

“This is the current scent lines I have and going to have in my shop.” A twinkle of a smile appears in her green eyes, as if she is offering me her first science project. I wouldn’t lie, this is growing on me just a little.

“They are pure extracts, so they are a little strong. I ... uh, I don’t know if we should show it on camera …?”

“Mari, the audience can’t smell them.” I chuckle, making her blush.

“Oh! Yes! That’s right ... I was ... Ah,” flustered, she fumbles on her words, “I was thinking you can give it a try, but I ... I uh, just realize that you’re not going to be on the video! I’m sorry!”

“Nothing to apologize for! I’m a bit curious anyway,” I approach the first vial in the line, inspecting the clear liquid in it, “everything kinda looks the same, isn’t it? Clear with no color.”

“Well, most oil and extracts are like that in their natural form. That you’re holding is lavender, but it’s not purple because I didn’t add any color to it”

“Huh, I’ll be damned.” Pulling the face mask to under my nose, I uncorked the vial and give a good sniff. Only to immediately choke on the overwhelming smell of lavender, so condensed it turns bitter and waters my eyes.

“Careful!” Mari gasps, taking the vial from my hand.

“You weren’t kidding! That’s really strong!”

My red face got Mari giggling, “I told you. They are concentrated extracts. Not something for a lightweight.”

So she has some fire in there. Laughing through my tears, I pick up the next vial, “Is this going to make me choke too?”

“I don’t know. How about you try?”

Rolling my eyes playfully at Mari, I uncork it. This time, I manage to not inhale a lungful, but the fume coming off is strong enough that I immediately put the bottle down.

“This is ... rose, right?”

“Correct! These two are our most popular scents.”

People can be so predictable. “So I guess you’d have a citrus fragrance, right? And probably strawberry and vanilla too?”

Mari claps her hands together, obviously smiling under her mask, “You’re so good at this!”

Feeling my cheeks heat up, I place down the vial just to distract myself, “Well ... I have done some research.”

“Still, that’s a lot more time you've invested into my business than the news channel,” Mari glides down the island, eyes searching the labels, “ah, here! This one is a lot lighter than the others, and I bet you can’t tell what it is!”

Boldened by her compliments, I accept the vial, winking, “And what would I get if I manage to guess correctly?”

Startled, whatever visible of Mari’s face turns a brilliant shade of crimson, “We-well! I ... uh ... I can ... I can show you more so-soap!”

Chuckling at her cute stammers, I take the vial from Mari’s hand, “Sounds lovely to me.”

The liquid in the vial has a sweet note to it, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. The liquid is clear ... almost ... the smell is almost ... alcohol-y? Mari is right ... this is difficult to pin down ... I come back for another whiff, but this time ... it smells like ... hmmm ... it smells like grass clippings ... How strange ... A third whiff ... this time ... it’s ... clean ... Still sweet ... almost like ……………………………….

I look up, my mouth opens but only a grunt comes out. Mari is no ... longer there ... My head spins, I try to turn ... but …

Sharp pain pierces through dizziness, leaving only darkness behind.

…

…

……..

………………………………………….

I come to in a bright light. I feel like I should squint, but my eyes barely twitch. It doesn’t bother me much when it should. I try moving, but the sensation that comes is ... distant. Numb, almost ... unfeeling.

Even my thoughts ... My thoughts are unfocused. As if I can’t think. As if I can only focus on what’s in front of me.

Startled, I try to sit, but my body won’t move. I open my mouth, trying to scream, but no sound comes out. Terrified in this strange nothingness, I command my body to thrash, I force myself to move, I clench my muscles for a sound to come out …

But nothing.

Terror seeps into my brain, but it seems like that’s the only thing working I have left.

What is going on?

What happened??

Where am I???

I should be hyperventilating right now, but my breathing is strangely even. Or somehow oxygen is still coming into my lungs normally, despite everything.

Suddenly, my perspective changes. Whatever is holding my body is being lifted up, and I come to an inclined sitting position.

Perfect to look Mari in the eye.

Hair pinned back away from her face, the green of her eyes glows eerily in the dimmed room. She wears a surgical mask, plastic scrubs and an overall apron to tuck every loose end in.

In the coldness of her lab, Mari looks tiny. But terrifying.

Besides her is a wheeled cart, full of tools that would make my blood curdle and my skin crawl if I could still feel. In utter silence, I watch as she wets a cotton swab with alcohol, carefully rubbing down my leg with precise stroke.

Belatedly, I realize that I am naked and strapped to her island.

Trying to force out a scream, my eyes finally rolled downward enough to see the edge of an oxygen mask and IV tubes on my arms.

A metallic clink brings my attention back to Mari. Surgical knife in hand, she angles it above my leg.

I scream, but no sound comes out. The blade comes down, but I feel nothing. A tube slides inside the wound, crimson welling up and travelling somewhere out of my peripheral vision.

But I feel nothing.

Somewhere in the room, classical music begins playing. Trilling violin, sharp and precise with each of Mari’s movement.

I watch as my tissues and fat gives under metal, peeling away from muscles drained of blood. Skin strips away so easily, as if it’s a layer of clothing. Neat. Perfectly symmetrical. Stacked on each other in a tray like leather waiting to cure.

Before the song is over, both my calves are bare, showing flesh that I only ever saw in biology class.

I should be hysterical. I should be screaming. I should be crying.

Begging for my life. Calling for help.

But I can only watch.

She switches knife. Tongs in one hand and blade in the other, Mari begins cutting away my muscles. Beginning at the tendons, she quickly but cleanly strips them from my bones. Unlike the skin, the meat is discarded into a plastic vat.

Didn’t Mari say she was supposed to be a surgeon?

The bones aren’t as white as movies depict them. They are ivory, but stained. Like teeth that haven’t seen the dentist for a long time. Pink at the edges where the meat hugs them a bit too tightly. That’s where a different tool comes out. I don’t know what it is, but I soon figure it out, when the sound of scraping fills my ears.

The music swells, but that sound ... that scraping sound ... against my bones ... is stuck and playing in a loop in my head forever. However left that might be.

My vision blurs, and for a moment there, I thought I was finally passing out into sweet abyss. But when Mari looks up, she wipes her bloodied hands, and reaches up to wipe my face with a clean cotton.

My vision clears, and I realize that I have been crying.

At least that hasn’t been taken away from me.

Snip, snip snip.

More skin comes off. Follows by muscles.

Click, click, click.

My kneecaps are removed.

Mari works fast and impeccable. Not a drop of blood is spilled onto her island. Not a scrap of meat is left lying around. Each piece of small bone removed but not broken, arranged in a larger tray by the skin.

The music changes again.

She moves up, not even hesitating at my nether region. Fingers skimming, almost teasingly. The blade moves to my stomach. Hovering.

Finally. Finally Mari looks into my eyes. A sparkle of a smile dances in endless green, long lashes flutter like a lover’s kiss.

“This is where we say goodbye.”

In my head, I curse her. I scream. I struggle. I pray for my life.

Nothing comes out and nothing stops the knife that comes down.

But she lied.

Darkness didn’t come for me right away when my insides are exposed. My eyes didn’t roll back when splatters of blood reach her elbows. I didn’t die when machines are hooked up into me.

My brain stutters at the images. But it doesn’t shut down.

I watch as she inspects my organs. I watch as she prod this or that, smoothing her fingers over squishy flesh like a curious student. I watch as my skin is peeled open like a gutted fish.

I watch myself being taken apart.

Parts ... My parts …

My parts that would go into her precious vats of soap.

If I could still laugh, deliriously so, I would.

So this is what she meant by sourcing ingredients.

The music changes again. Something joyful. Something sweet. Something pure.

I watch, but no longer can distinguish what Mari has just lifted out of my stomach. I don’t think my brain could think anymore.

Good.

Let it end.

Please …

My vision blurs once more, when the knife is dragged up to my chest. Skin gives way. Ribcage rises and falls evenly. As if I am asleep. As if this is just a nightmare.

Perhaps it is a mercy that it is painless. Perhaps it is good that I can’t fight back.

Perhaps this is an easier way to die.

Knife glides over my shoulder. Down my arm. Muscles open up. Stripped away from bones.

IV tubes being pulled out. Machines going silent.

This is it.

My head rolls over. Glazed eyes following a slender hand that’s holding mine.

Is she smiling?

I can’t tell.

At least …

……. I’ll …

... be …

One of her children.