∞∞∞
The water roars to life, echoing off the mirrored walls of the bathroom, as I turn the handle on the tub. She is lying on the chaise, while I mix scents and shampoos in the water—my very own cauldron of aftercare, rivaling that of my ancestors from back in the olden days.
“Need any help?” I hear her whisper. Turning my head, I see her standing at the entrance to the bathroom, and frustration races through my veins.
“I told you to lie down.” I scold her, “You should be resting.” A small smile touches her face, and I relax my shoulders. Reaching out to her from my perch on the side of the tub, “No fear, it’s near ready.” She walks over and starts to timidly undress. I jump to my feet to stop her.
“Please allow me.” I stop her, “The whole point of aftercare is for you to relaxafterand let mecarefor you.”
“I-” She breathes, barely forming a sound, then nods slightly. I move quickly, positioning myself where I am towering behind her. I unclasp the dress, running my rough hands on her smooth skin, as I tend to the zipper on her side. Releasing the fabric I watch its descent, astonished by how it ripples at her feet.
She is mesmerizing.
I circle her, taking my seat on the edge of the tub again, hand outstretched, beckoning her to accept it. She stands there like a lawn ornament, her arms covering her nudity. A small red patch on her knee, catches my attention. Dried blood and dirt cover the wound, clinging to each other in forsaken matrimony.
Her hesitation is palpable, but she takes my hand, and I lead her gently into the warm, fragrant water. “The water smells wonderful. What is it?” She inquires.
“It’s one of my mother's old recipes. She used to call it bath tea.” The cloth on my face, for the umpteenth time, has become the bane of my existence. I want to feel her tender touch against my face.
The tension in her limbs melts away as she lowers herself into the bath. Cautiously, I watch—ready to catch her if she were to slip. Once submerged, her eyes close in silent gratitude. I dip a soft rag into the water, wringing it out delicately, before beginning to cleanse thedirt and remnants of the garden from her angelic skin. The steam rises around us, enveloping the room in a cocoon of tranquility.
Folding the rag, I place it gently on her forehead, guiding her further down, as I watch her body vanish beneath the suds. The edge of the tub meets and cradles her neck, then her breathing steadies. Her chest now rising and falling in coordination with the rhythmic dance of my hands, while they follow her curves with compassion and purpose.
Each touch is an unspoken promise of care and devotion, a ritual that binds us in these moments of serene intimacy. I dip my hands in the water in search of her legs, in retrieving them, I place one on my thigh while she tugs the other away from me and leans it on the opposite side of the ceramic basin.
A perfect view if it weren't for the damned bubbles.
I feel as though she can read my thoughts, because right at that moment, she begins to sway her leg. A force that causes the bubbles to make a clearing, it has the resemblance to the eye of a hurricane—the suds, like the clouds to the heavens separating. The scent of the water soothing her as it whispers secrets of ancient times, carrying the essence of herbs and flowers—a testament to the old ways of healing and connection.
She opens her eyes, meeting mine with a look of unspoken trust, and in that gaze, I find a profound sense of peace. The world outside fades into insignificance, leaving only the sacred space we share, grounded in the simplicity of our presence together. Bewitched by her beauty, I don’t notice her hand—or the sound the water makes as it rolls down her elbow, forming craters in the bubbles, on its return to the reservoir encompassing her.
Without warning, I feel the steam stroke my face as the material slips away. Rage breaks through like a primordial demon whose binding circle has finally been broken after centuries of rotting in damp, and dusty catacombs. I grab her wrist with strength even I was unaware I possessed, and lift her from the bath, in this moment, “I Remember,” fromThe Phantom of the Operafills my skull. I hold her up until her eyes are level with mine—they don’t meet immediately. No, she does a full once-over of the monstrosity before her.
It doesn’t last long before the fury melts into desire as her face changes from fear to sadness. Still holding her elevated, I watch as the water sways in response to, what I assume, would be her other hand. The murky liquid, scantily covering her lower half, as music continues to play in my mind.
The warmth from her hand, follows the scars that garnish my, once hidden, face from the judgmental eyes of this cruel world. My heart is beating like it would after running a marathon, now that the horrific side of me is on display for the world to see...
lucky me
It is only my universe before me.
Hatred and fear take my soul as a single tear leaves her eye, joining the dew forming on her cheek from the heat that hung in the air, like wayward souls down the river Styx.
Her touch is like a thousand butterflies’ wings. “What-” she stutters. “What happened to you... who hurt you?” Watching her sorrow shift to ire, her eyes blazing with a newfound loathing. It strikes me at my core, like a ferro rod to kindling. Her voice, though trembling, carries a strength that defies the frailty of her form. "Tellme,” She demands gently. Her fingers are tracing the contours of my scars with a mixture of reverence and pity.
“Don’t-” My face hardens. “Don't you darepityme.”
The soft presence of chamomile, accompanied by the calm of lavender, play their part wondrously in the percussion for the ghostly melodies of our shared silence—now a haven for unspoken truths. The steam wraps around us, cloaking our vulnerability in its ephemeral embrace. Her eyes, as if speaking for her, long to probe deeper into the crevices of my past. The look indicating that she wants to know the weight of my pain and the shadows of my memories.
Her empathy, like a salve, soothes the raw edges of my soul. Dissolving it into the warm, fragrant air. The compassion she holds corkscrews around me, like the ribbon of an antediluvian scroll—binding us together in a tapestry of shared sorrow and proliferating hope. The sacred space we inhabit, once a mere physical boundary, now transforms into a sanctuary of healing and rebirth—where the fragments of our brokenness are not hidden but exalted.
Chapter 13
Christian
"Redemption is found not in perfection, butin the willingness to try again."
Dusk has fallen, as we finally make it to our destination in one piece. It's only been a few hours since she was narcotized by the contents in the needle that crackpot jabbed her with. Only a little bit longer, and we will be able to move beneath the veil of the night sky—the moon lighting our way. “Evelyn, sugar,” I shake her, knowing she won't be coming down anytime soon. “Sugar, baby, please. At least look at me.” A small flutter of her lashes is all I receive.
