A Bath

The raging water from the spigot was hot. The polished chrome handle was becoming slippery. Plumes of steam were vaporizing on the mirror. The glass on the door. The towel on the bar. The lightbulbs. A roll of toilet paper was growing soggy. The furry mat on the floor was thickening. It’s pores were gluttons for water.

Under the heat of ultraviolet, beads of sweat were forming on my temples. The back of my head was wet with sweat. Rolling down my cheeks and into the water.

I broke its bubbling skin with my foot. Eased myself in.

My wet fingers turned the knob. Ended the furious roiling.

I leaned back against the back of the tub. My legs were bent at the knee. The beating of my heart slowed as the water enveloped me. The rustling of plastic rings as I drew back the curtain. My own, little world of white porcelain, polyester plastic prints, and bubble blown shower glass.

My fingers made trickles in the water. Like echoes without sound.

I closed my eyes. Tired and weary.

I saw them crying. I saw them holding back their tears. Aunt Michelle folding my belongings. Organizing dinner at the church. Making phone calls.

The blade sat cold on the soap dish. It’s shiny steel reflected light into prisms on the wall. Inviting me like a lover. The veins in wrist were throbbing. Terrified.

I pulled the drain cord out with my foot. Sent the water to an unknown future in the drain. Clogged with hair and soap residue, it gurgled uncontrollably.

The air was cold. The porcelain. I was taken with shivers.

I left my little, private world. Steam rose like jellyfish tendrils from my goose pimple skin. I threw a loose sweatshirt over my neck. My favorite jeans.

I was ready to get through the day.