Or maybe it's because this is the nicest shower I've had in years.
On the Morrígan compound, cold water became normal. Cold meant purity. Cold meant clarity, and it was how they cleansed us of sin.
Hot water was a privilege I hardly ever got.
I grab the soap and scrub my skin until it's raw, trying to wash off the feel of the woods. The ritual. The basement. The gun pressed against my temple.
I scrub harder.
My arms. My legs. My stomach.
I spend extra time on the scar burned into my forearm, the M that marks me.
The soap glides over it and it stings. Not physically. It healed years ago, but sometimes when I touch it, when I see it, it stings anyway.
I move to the scars along my side, small crescent shapes, some old, some newer. Shadows of punishments. Ritual cuts. Offerings I never believed in, not really, but I did them anyway because the alternative was worse.
"Because your body belongs to the Morrígan," he'd said as my blood fell onto the altar.
I shake the thought away and then just stand there, letting the water run over me, waiting for the heat to burn away the memories.
It doesn't, so I turn off the water and step out, dripping onto the tile floor.
I stand in front of the mirror, watching beads of water drip down my skin in shaky lines. Then all I can see is a body marked by a lifetime of someone else’s war.
I look like someone who died a long time ago but hasn't figured it out yet.
Shame twists in my gut, sharp and vicious, and I turn away.
I look down at my old clothes piled on the floor. There is no way I'm putting that back on, ever, if I don't have to.
Looking around, I spot a very nice and clean white robe. The one people are supposed to wear.
I hesitate for a moment and then reach out and grab it. I slide it on and pull the belt tight around my waist, then walk back into the bedroom.
The bed looks too clean and I stare at it for a long moment.
I sink to my knees and curl up on the floor beside it.
Not on it. Never on it.
The thought repeats in my head like a mantra, drowning out everything else.
You don't deserve comfort. You don't deserve safety. You don't deserve anything.
The guilt crashes over me in waves.
Guilt for running. For leaving. For abandoning the only family I've ever known, twisted as it was.
Guilt for the girl who screamed in the woods while they burned her alive.
I close my eyes, but all I see is her face.
Her wide, terrified eyes. Her mouth open in a scream that never stopped.
Her hair on fire, the flames climbing up her braids. The brothers held her down, chanting, while the Sisters swayed with their palms open toward the blaze. The Morrígan must be honored.The prophecy must be completed. The blood must be pure. Her screams turned to choking sobs, then stopped.
A rattling sound outside makes me flinch.
