<div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: comic sans ms;">Did the woman think she didn’t know how to bathe herself? How to make sure she was clean? She didn’t care that the woman sounded friendly and concerned - she had been down that road too many times. There wasn’t one person she could trust, her own mother suddenly vanishing had proved that to her.<br/><br/>Her head lowered to rest bruised forehead against her knees, her words muffled by tangled locks of hair spilling around her face. “I can bathe myself. I am not stripping till you leave.” It was killing her to sit there in her own urine, not to mention the blood drying tacky against her skin, but she wouldn’t strip with someone else in there. If they knew her so well and had so many doctors saying she needed help then they would know that she did not strip in front of anyone!<br/><br/>And while she wasn’t aggressive, she was stubborn and she was adamant about not being naked in front of the woman. She didn’t know *why* it was so important she not be naked, she didn’t care why it was so important, all she knew was it wasn’t going to happen while the woman was standing there watching.<br/><br/>The one concession she would make would be the woman turning a chair to face a corner and stare at the wall, and even that would be hard for her to tolerate which made her loathe to even say it out loud. “You sit in the chair facing the corner and don’t turn your head.” She needed a shower and if she didn’t bathe soon she was going to start panicking fully. She knew it, she could feel it rising up like a wave that would crush her.</span></div>