I sat up in bed, drowsily rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock with more force than necessary. Then those dark tendrils of panic engulfed me, weaving through my arms and legs, around my body and piercing through my head. My heart began to beat faster, pumping the blood around my body and making it feel as if I suddenly had a burning fever. What is the matter with you? You didn't have a shower yesterday and you haven't washed your hands yet. You disgusting girl. You're going to get sick. YOU ARE GOING TO GET SICK. GET IN THE BLOODY SHOWER, EVE. GET IN. Heart slamming against my ribcage like a deranged animal, I threw off the duvet, swung my legs onto the carpet, grabbed my towel and rushed into the bathroom, panic close at my heels.

I lathered and rinsed my hands ten times, then sanitized my hands another ten times, coated a flannel in antibacterial face wash and washed my face. Of course, I was going to do all this in the shower, but I wanted to make sure that my hands and face were properly cleaned before I washed everywhere else as well. After rubbing the tenth bead of antibacterial hand gel into my palms, I twisted the tap round onto the hot shower setting, peeled off my clothes and stepped under the jet of water. Relief flooded my body as I lathered sterilizing soap all over my skin. I could feel the toxic germs flowing off my limbs, my torso and my face and spiralling down the plughole, and I sighed deeply with temporary relief. But not for long. Already the voices had come back, barrelling through my brain and reverberating through my body. Are you sure you washed properly? I don't think you did, did you? You should do it again, just to be really sure. "No," I whispered so quietly that I was sure no one else could hear me over the sound of the water. "No, I won't. I don't need to. I'm clean." Are you really? That's news to me then. Then a new voice came to join the party. She must be insane. Those germs are practically luminous! You don't want to end up like Jack, now, do you? I whimpered, thinking again of my brother.

Not being able to resist any longer, I grasped hold of the soap, and once again opened the pores in my skin. I sterilized all the flesh around the various scars and cuts that decorated my wrists from the time where Jack's death got too much to bear, from which I'd only just recovered. Biting my lip, I blinked back the emotion behind my eyes as images from Jack's death flitted through my head. The long black car that held the coffin. Mum and Dad trying to be brave for me. The droning minister. The meal that was held after the cremation of my brother. Shaking my head to dislodge the memories, I switched off the water, wrapped myself in the now-cold towel and shuffled into my bedroom, where I proceeded to get dressed. I took a slim-fitting (I've already explained this) black long-sleeved top and jeans out of my drawer, but groaned when I looked in the mirror. Across the front of my flesh-toned bra was inked a grinning face, in what must be permanent marker. I knew that this was the work of my three-year-old cousin, Emma, who couldn't help herself from drawing smiley faces on absolutely everything. Which now included my clothes as well, apparently. She had been staying with us for a couple of weeks while her parents went on a stereotypical perfect holiday (with white beaches, palm trees, blue waters, etc etc etc), and although I loved her as if she were a sibling, she really knew how to get on my nerves. I also noticed that she had circled the size on the label and had artfully made it stand out. Which meant that she had graffitied the size across the band of the bra as well, which meant that now I could never again wear it on PE days at school, unless I wanted my whole class to know that I was a 32C. Which, of course, I didn't. Well, this was fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Now I knew that I had a relative who seemed to be extremely interested in defacing my clothes. Perfect. Lucky me.

After I had changed some areas of my outfit, I crept downstairs so as not to wake anyone up, and pushed open the door to the kitchen. As it was winter, the sun had not yet risen, and through the gloom of the little room I could see the huge tank of sea animals that was slowly coming to life now the night was over. The black-spotted boxfish pair weaved in out of a clump of seaweed, a lone batfish sat miserably in a little stone castle, it's red lips pulled into a scowl and a cluster of young yellow cowfish explored the small city of artificial coral in the corner. And then I spotted the most powerful fish in the tank. The state fish of Hawaii was resting on the coloured stones on the bottom of the glass, surveying the scene before it. I'd always thought of my humuhumunukunukuapuaa as having an important air around her, and every other fish respected her. She was not a dictator;she was more of a calm, supreme ruler over my ever-growing colony of fish. She was an exotic, deep-sea empress. Smiling at all of them, I sprinkled blue flakes of fish food into the tank, which they all gobbled up appreciatively. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat in front of the tank, just staring in fascination. This was something I regularly did, and I had become very interested in the behaviours of the fish I owned. Yes, I know, I'm a nerd, but hey, I find this kind of thing interesting. Just as I finished eating, Mum breezed into the kitchen, already ready to go out despite the fact that it had only just gone eight. "Hello, my little Eve," she hugged me from behind and planted a kiss on my cheek. "Hi Mum," I muttered, turning around returning the embrace. "Come with me, I'm going to the garden centre for a Christmas tree." "Sure," I said," I'll come."

Just as I pulled my boots on and tugged open the door, a small girl barrelled down the stairs and landed in a heap on the carpet. She grinned up at me and said,"Me come too! Me want to come too!" I smiled at her and bundled her up in her coat and mittens. "Come on Emma," I smiled, taking hold of her gloved hand and leading her outside. "Let's get a Christmas tree!" "Yay!" she squealed, bouncing down the road to where Mum was waiting. "Cwistmas! Cwistmas!" I shook my head at her good-naturedly and smiled-who would've thought that such an angelic little person could be capable of something as devilish as obscenely defacing underwear? I pushed that thought aside as I helped Emma into the boxy 4x4 that Dad insisted on buying a couple of years ago. After we had both scrambled into our seats, Mum smashed her foot onto the accelerator (she enjoys driving crazily fast, and I take after her, much to Dad's dismay. He feels more comfortable at a casual tortoise- type pace) and sped off towards the garden centre.

"What about this one?" I enquired, gesturing to a slightly towering tree that looked like it would just brush the top of the living room ceiling. I always wanted to get the tallest Christmas tree each year, but Emma loved tiny ones, and as we often spent Christmas with her family we had turned it into an annual competition. But just as I reached out to grasp the top of the tree: Please don't tell me that you're actually going to touch that, are you? Think about how many people have touched the tree. Someone who has norovirus could have touched the tree and the germs will transfer to your hands and make you sick. Get out your hand sanitizer. You need to wash your hands. Is the hand gel antibacterial? It is? Good. Rub it all over your hands twice. That's good. One more time, just to make sure. Good girl. Now, go and wash your hands. You don't want to get norovirus, now do you? "No," I muttered hopelessly, fighting the urge to double over as the voices cascaded through my mind. Battling with my facial muscles to keep my expression natural, I told Emma to tell Mum that I would be in the bathroom for a couple of minutes and went to seek freedom from the voices in my head.

I let out a breath of relief as the icy water flowed over my hands, sluicing the parasitic germs off my winter-paled palms. Pump the soap dispenser ten times. One, two, three, four, five, six.... lather the backs of the hands...rub, rub, rub...lace the fingers together... After the tenth repeat of these actions, my skin cried out, begged for more, craving to be washed just one more time. Suddenly, the full reality of what I was doing slapped me harshly in the face. Unlike most thirteen year old girls, I was not stressing over my body image, going out with my friends, daydreaming of romantic scenarios with a boy whom I admired from afar, or arguing unnecessarily with parents or siblings. I was stuck in a bathroom, in a garden centre, trapped in a loop of anxiety and cleanliness, attacking my hands like a maniac. What on earth are you doing, you little freak? What would Dylan say if she saw you now? A new voice materialized and started talking. She'd think you were crazy. She'd think you were absolutely insane. I fell to the ground, sobbing, trying to escape from the voices in my head.