By Yong Siew Fern

SABINE sees living germs.

Ever teleported yourself into the world of a hypochondriac?

Sabine, my crazy mahjong mate, believes she is trapped in its ethereal zone.

Each night, as she lays her head down to sleep, she recalls all the places her hair has touched – the backs of bus seats, the walls of lifts – and how she is unwittingly transferring other people’s hair grease, grime and dandruff onto her pillows.

So she soothes herself by thinking she is helping to feed them – with her dead skin cells. I tell her those are called dustmites.

There are millions of bugs and micro organisms we cannot see with our naked eye, she said. And sometimes, she wishes she could see them all.

At least, she can wear matching pyjamas to blend in with their colours.

They have turned her world into Roswell district. They are the aliens the rest of us choose to ignore.

Yet, these creatures are humming in her head, and she knows her pals think she is a funny girl – for talking to them.

Sometimes, she does not even have to talk.

She eyes doorknobs in toilets suspiciously; thinks about what were on the fingers of those who pressed the flush button before she did. That very same button, which laughs at her with its coat of unknown substance.

Yes, they continue to talk to her in her head now and then.

The buttons on lifts, tainted with vague trails of dried-up fluids, never escape her consciousness.

Neither do the vapours that are spewed into the air, when someone coughs behind her in the cinema. ‘The droplets always find me!’ she exclaims in despair. Once, she felt a wet spot on the back of her neck in the dark – the trajectory is always perfect.

And like most obsessive-compulsive people, Sabine is fully aware of this ‘disease’ of the mind. Her friends have kept her sane: ‘You are still alive, aren’t you? We are still alive.

‘And we don’t wash our hands after we use the toilet,’ they joke.

Sabine washes her hands. Boy, does she wash them. The full works: Soap and rinse. And soap again. She scrubs every bubble of slime in the crevices between her fingers.

If you fling water after your wash, and the droplets land on her, she washes again.

It is no surprise, then, if hypochondriacs like her are the biggest culprits at wasting water. So I asked: ‘What happens during a war? When water is precious or inaccessible?’

She replied: ‘By that time, the invisible – and invincible – little things are going to take over the world and conquer us all. So I will just lie back and take whatever comes.’

Meanwhile, she is seeking solace in a new TV series called Monk – about a hypochondriac detective.