text: It's amazing what the shower can hide. She steps in, chucking her blood soaked clothes into the hamper. It had crusted over on the way home, with everyone's eyes turning away. Even the homeless man on the street corner, Clevis, the most relentless man she knew, always staring her down for change to get a bottle of beer, had averted her gaze. She turns the water on warm. Her bruises cry out as she makes circles with her wash cloth. The blood flakes off, and she sits on the floor of the tub to cry. Nobody can hear her crying behind the stream of the water. That's the way she likes it. The landlord pays the water bill, and he can pay for half an hour of sobs, until her skin becomes that of a raisin, and she can forget the sins that man committed on her. She feels violated. She feels abused. She wonders if she can drown if she plugs the tub. It doesn't work. Two weeks pass, and she finds herself back in the shower, water dripping down her face. If you ask, she will say it is from the faucet. Nobody bothers to ask. She saw his face at the coffee shop today. Turns out he also likes chocolate crullers. He caught her eye, and for a moment the recognition didn't flicker, with her sunglasses covering her face. But then it did, and he stuck his finger through the hole of his doughnut, in and out until he's satisfied with her squirming. She gave her doughnut to Clevis. And now here she sits, sobbing in a tub because the memories come flooding back, not caring how hard she has worked to repress them. Her stomach rumbles, because she never got to eat her doughnut, let alone anything, but she can't bring herself to get off the floor of her shower. It's a good thing she's not paying the water bill. Another two weeks pass. She thinks she is finally able to stand in the shower. Her legs wobble, and at the scent of her strawberry shampoo, she almost caves. The smell reminds her of her tears. Her tears remind her of the incident. Why had she walked home alone that day? Bolstering herself against the wall, she takes a breath. She doesn't think, and exhales through her mouth as the water pours down, and everything tastes like soap. She spits to the ground and slides down into it. She's not ready to stop crying. Two months pass this time. She was caked in sweat from her run around the neighborhood. The therapist said it would be good for her to take up a hobby, clear her mind. So far it's worked wonders. Today she took the route past the coffee shop. The chocolate crullers had cried out to her, and her mind flickered back to that day. Lacing her shoes tighter, she took off. She stands there, stomach growling, thinking about that doughnut. That man had stolen her innocence. Was she really going to let him take her favorite food too? In, out, in, out, had gone the finger. The shower rains down cold, until she can blame her shivers on the water. She wraps the towel around her body and stands in front of the mirror. "I am not powerless," she tells her reflection. She wishes she could hear it echo back. Six weeks disappear, and so does her midsection. There used to be a small bulge, but now as she turns to the side, it almost seems a bit concave, as if someone has scooped out her insides and ran off with them. She turns frontward and studies her thighs. They don't rub like they used to. They're long and lean, like those runway models she used to make fun of. She always swore they didn't eat, and ran off fumes all day. Had she fallen in with their crowd? No, she's thin now, but still not pretty. She can see the scar he left her. She escapes behind the curtain, and lets the water heat up. Tracing the scar, her lip trembles, and tears fall. It's time to let the shower pour. So do her eyes. Half a year has passed since she met him. Half a year of wondering why she didn't take Janet up on her offer to get a ride home. Half a year of sitting in her tub, pretending the shower covers her tears. There's a knock on the door. She ignores it, stepping into the shower. The past few weeks have been fine. If by fine you mean doing nothing but work and runs and sleep. There's no crying though, and she considers this an accomplishment. There's a tattoo on her scar now. It makes her feel beautiful, and she runs her hand along it as she steps into the shower. This time she doesn't cry. The shower lasts all of a few minutes, to cleanse her of her morning run. She throws her hair into a sloppy bun. Today she can face the world. She draws a smiley face in the mirror steam. It's been eight months now. The adrenaline of the tattoo has worn off. It's a part of her, like all the thoughts she keeps locked away. They're supposed to be locked away. He was at the drug store today. Which wouldn't be a problem, because her therapist has taught her how to handle these kinds of situations. Except he was buying condoms, and when the cashier told him to have a good night, he got that devilish tone to his voice that makes her skin crawl. "Oh, I will." She dropped her iced coffee. Having abandoned her favorite cafe, she had stopped to get her fix, the kind that comes in glass bottles. It had soaked into her leg hair. She's in the shower, removing every trace of coffee. If only she could remove every trace of him. Nine months in, she sits on the edge of the tub. Every day she gets in here, and every day she remembers. These flashbacks plague her. Today she turns the radio on. A country song pours out. It'll be the perfect distraction to her night. She had met a handsome man, and he was the type to kiss on the first date. He had asked his place or hers, and she had feigned ill from the shrimp they'd had for dinner. She gasps and changes the station. Maybe rock n' roll will cure her wandering mind. Her puke washes down the drain. It's Halloween, and she is scrubbing all the green off her skin. Her washcloth is officially trashed, and she wishes she hadn't been the Jolly Green Giant this year. More like the Sad Green Midget. Her frame is frail from malnourishment. It's more habit than anything really, this not eating habit, as she is buried in work and running to forget that she is working on running away from this man. She had played wallflower at Janet's party, afraid of running into that man again. With everyone in costume, he could have been anyone. She scrubs harder. All of her frustration is making her skin raw. She needs to learn to live without fear. Given the date, the irony is not lost on her. It's been a year. She woke up and came into the bathroom, laid down in the tub. The water isn't even on. Just the radio, filling her head with noise so it doesn't supply its own. A paper slides underneath her bathroom door. "Thought you might need something to help you through the day. If you need a shoulder, you know where to find me. -Clevis. PS. You should lock your front door." Opening the door, she finds a bag sitting on the floor. It's from the cafe. Inside is one broken chocolate cruller, extra napkins. She pokes her head around the corner. He's nowhere to be seen. He gave up his daily beer to buy her a doughnut. Broken in half, because you can't stick your fingers through a broken doughnut. She falls back onto the tiled floor, bites down into the pastry. This time they're happy tears.