500 word story I wrote for short story club
xxxx Dolling
Driclor
Dear Dolly Doctor,
I think there is something wrong with me, I sweat so much that I get wet patches under my arms all the time. I don’t know what to do, I have tried deodorant and wearing cotton shirts but it doesn’t help. What can I do?
From Sweatygirl
Someone had finally written a letter about her problem. Hope ballooned inside her as she read on to find an answer.
Dear Sweatygirl,
It’s not unusual to sweat, our bodies go through hormonal changes… Blah blah blah …
she scanned the response looking for something useful. …
‘If you find that you sweat more than normal there is an extra powerful deodorant available called Driclor…’
Driclor. She loved and hated the word. Driclor. It would be better than wearing jumpers during the summer to cover her damp armpits. She felt comforted that she wasn’t the only one who sweat profusely but hurt that she had been chosen to have this inflicted upon her amongst all the other ways her body had decided to betray her. The other stuff would be fine if she could just fix this sweat problem. The cycle seemed self-perpetuating, the more concerned she became, the more she sweat.
Driclor.
Getting it would mean telling someone about her problem. She knew she could never do that. She couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than the day she crept into the kitchen while her mother prepared dinner and quietly stated that it was probably time to get a sports bra. She would have avoided bringing it up for ever but a few days earlier little sister had spotted her nipple through her purple skivvy and gleefully pinched it.
Both memories sickened her deeply.
At school she would steal glances at the armpits of her classmates hoping desperately that someone else would bear those terrible wet patches. She mentally catalogued two occasions where she had detected others sweating, just two. The magnitude of their sweat was nothing compared to her own.
But how could she get Driclor? She imagined Sweatygirl showing her mother what Dolly Doctor had written and together they would go to the chemist and buy Driclor, perfectly normal.
She became obsessed with visiting pharmacies on shopping trips. She would stroll the aisles casually, her eyes meticulously scanning every shelf for a product called Driclor. Would it be with the other deodorants? Is it medicine? Behind the counter maybe? She never sighted it. Not once.
The problem stayed with her as she transitioned from primary school to high school. She favoured the darker uniform items and frequently wore her jumper at inappropriate times. Her discomfort always eclipsed by her desperation to hide her secret. Still she thought of the magical Driclor. She had managed to obtain bras, vaguely hint at a potential desire to remove body hair (still a work in progress) and most impressively, was able to notify her mother when she needed a fresh supply of libra pads. Despite these grand achievements, it just couldn’t be done. She would not speak of it.
