For Amanda Seinfeld, cleanliness and loneliness went hand in hand. Her friends had called her weird. Her parents had called her disturbed. Her doctors had called her a germophobe. She called herself pure. And in order to remain pure, she had to remove herself from the ones who were not.
She had isolated herself. She had created a fortress of sterility to keep out the great unwashed. The filth-bearing masses. The ones that carry the corruption. Her fortress was not one of stone walls and spiked parapets, but one of glass, steel and plastic.
For a while, her isolation had worked. Her episodes of hysteria had stopped. She no longer had to scrub her hands until beads of blood seeped through the torn skin. She had lived in white, stainless peace and sterile happiness until, one day, she started sensing the filth. There was not a speck of dirt to be seen, but she could feel invisible strands of rust and decay creep under her door, reaching out for the her.
From then on, things only got worse. She got every single hair on her body surgically removed. Her long, amber curls. Every single hour of having her follicles individually burnt out by IPL epilators had been excruciating. But that hadn't been enough. After several months of bloody scrubbing and fits of panic, Amanda had found the solution. If she could not remove herself from the filth, she would simply have to remove the source of the filth itself.
Twenty floors above the dark streets of the city, Amanda Seinfeld looked down at the disease-ridden beasts milling around like panicked ants in a collapsing hive. Piles of bodies filled the streets. Her plans were finally unfolding.
Amanda folded her white, delicate fingers in front of her pale mouth and, for the first time in twenty years, she smiled.