The Survivors Trilogy

BOOK TWO || CHAPTER THREE

I can't help but collapse on the bathroom floor.

I slide along the ground until I hit the corner of the cubicle, the movement made difficult with the damp floor soaking up my pants. My chest hurts with the effort to keep myself quiet even though I want to scream. My legs are crushed against my ribs, but I don't feel the pain. I wouldn't even care if I did. It would probably make me feel better if I felt something.

Every single one of my limbs feel like they've turned to mush, unable to move, to cooperate with me at all. I want them to move; I don't want to stay on the ground, crying like a three-year-old, but it was the first thing my mind told me to do.

I wrap my shaking arms around my freezing cold legs, hoping they will suddenly get life back into them.  

Sometimes you have to let the people you love go and move on.

A lonely tear falls down my cheek as I recall what Johanna said to me. How can she say something like that? How can she say that to me, of all people? Any normal person wouldn't even think to say that to a person who is hurting, so why would Johanna? She must really be that heartless.

My back arches quickly as the sudden hot water touches my skin. The shower turned on and I don't even know how. Did I turn it on? Did my head hit the start button by accident?

I can't seem to move away from the searing spray quick enough. I can feel it soaking my shirt, causing it to stick against the scarred skin of my back and shoulders. I can feel the pain, I can feel the hot water seeping into my wounds, but I can't move. I can feel it saturating my hair, dripping and sticking to my forehead with each second that ticks by, but I don't push it away from my eyes.

One, two, three seconds pass and the shower is still on, still pouring water against my back and neck. Six, seven, eight more and my back already feels numb. So do all of my limbs. I can't even feel my clothes on my body, anymore.   

It hurts as I use the wall to pull myself up from the ground. The shower has finished. I guess the five minutes was quicker than I thought. I feel heavy, so heavy because of all the water. My shirt might as well be see-through because it's soaked in water. I try to pull the sodden material away from my body, but it's almost like it has been glued down to my skin.

I half walk, half stumble my way to the locked cubicle door, using my shaking fingers to turn the stubborn lock that feels like it's stuck. I can't believe something as small as this lock is making me feel weaker than before.

The sound of the door finally opening sounds around the eerie room. I try to clutch at my back as I make my way to the counter—where the mirror is, but I can't seem to soothe the stinging feeling from the shower. I guess boiling hot water and healing scars are not a good match.

With one arm wrapped around my middle, one against my back, I finally manage to get to the counter, my fingers grazing over the cool surface of the light gray sink when I get there. It feels cold, despite all the steam coursing around the room. I pull myself closer to the sink, lifting my heavy head to see the mirror.

The boy staring back into my eyes is no longer me. The reflection shows that I'm still here, that I haven't suddenly disappeared into thin air. My hair is stuck to my forehead, grown longer over the past few days, growing passed my eyes, curling around my ears. With it wet, it just stops on my shoulders, but when it's dry it goes wavy and looks shorter. I'm tempted to grab my knife and hack away chunks of it to make it look presentable, but I no longer have a knife. Vicky has it with her.

My eyes are sunken, losing the bright blue that was there only four days ago. It was there when Vicky was here, telling me how beautiful my eyes are. They were brighter when I thought my life was normal. When everything was somewhat okay.