Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

The briefcase landed with a solid thud at the foot of the stairs, but part of me wished it had been louder - more defiant. I unbuckled the black leather straps encircling my ankles and discarded the shoes haphazardly at the top of the landing. Clothes flung with frustration precariously balanced on towel racks and melted, dripping from the window sill and puddled onto the tile floor. Dusk and mingled twilight filtered through the blinds, as I stood there, still - quiet - naked, contemplating turning the lights on. It was too much effort to expose and confront the rawness. The soft embrace of darkness seemed safer.

Scalding water poured over me, mixing with the salt - baptising my fear, eroding the last bastion of hope. At first, the cool porcelain tile supported the weight. You should be used to this. It's your own fault - isn't it always? You're selfish to think it would be different this time. You don't know what's worse - that he doesn't or that you have no other options. You should have known better. Why would someone - why should someone? No one does - and no one ever will. It was too much.

No longer strong enough to stand, I knelt there, letting the water pour over me. Prone, I humbly begged for guidance. I cried out beseechingly for help, for hope, for strength. No one answered. No one ever does.

The water kept pouring forth, the temperature slipping from lukewarm to cold. It was more habit than intention, more reflex than passion. As it swirled in the drain, I let go and accepted the undeniable state of the truth. Fingers numb, I shakingly turned off the water wrapped up in a towel and climbed into bed. Alone.