He didn’t argue with me this time.
He didn’t try to take responsibility for something he hadn’t done.
He simply resumed washing.
He moved lower.
My legs. My ankles.
My feet.
Then —
Between my thighs.
His movements didn’t change.
He didn’t become awkward.
He cleaned me there carefully — as if restoring dignity to a place that had been violated.
It wasn’t sexual.
It was healing.
It was reclamation.
When the water turned pink and murky from the blood and dirt washing off my body —
He drained it.
The sound of water rushing down the pipe echoed loudly in the quiet bathroom.
He refilled the tub.
Warm water poured again.
And he washed me a second time.
Thorough.
Determined.
As if removing layers of trauma required repetition.
Only when the water stayed clear did he stop.
He helped me stand.
Wrapped a large, soft towel around my body.
His hands supported my waist as he lifted me out carefully.
He carried me to the bedroom without hesitation.
The sheets had been changed.
Fresh.
