(Credit: darkcrystal1209 on DeviantArt)

Scratching at the paint with a red lacquered fingernail, I wonder whether I will ever see the original wood again.

Notwithstanding the flaking, the desk is white all over, and maybe it is even white all the way through. Could it really be that there is no wood, only layer upon thick layer of paint and varnish?

I am determined to find out, even if only a woody skeleton will remain in my study.

With foaming Ajax, I attack with first a sponge, using the rough side, then steel wool. Powder is washed from my hands, but I ignore it even when my nail breaks. Sweat makes mascara run into my eyes, but it is only a small distraction. A small distraction from something that I have wanted to do since forever. Or at least since I gave it my own layer of paint.

I feel that I am getting closer with every layer lost.

Closer to that real, original thing, which must be there.

The carpet soaks in water, paint and make up.

The legs grow thin, as my lipstick smears.

I must be getting there and soon.

The small drawers are already gone.

My hands and knees dissolve.

Is that my hair?

What is left?

I am.

Nothing

With help from www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts