Beacon in the Darkness

15. Down Come The Rain

The nearly scalding water fell from the shower head, rolling over Shawn's shoulders and burning as it traveled down the length of his body. On any normal day, he would have jumped back and nudged the knob until the water reached the right temperature. But not today. Today he barely felt the stinging pain as his skin reddened at the contact.

Steam billowed up around him, coating the glass with a concealing layer of white mist. He hung his head, allowing the water to flow over his face, blinding him, and making it harder to breathe. Raising one hand, he pushed the sopping curls out of his eyes and held them on top of his head. He exhaled a slow breath, drops of moisture sputtering from his wet mouth. Clenching his eyes shut, he leaned forward placing his palm against the cool tile wall, the hot spray now hitting the center of his back.

No matter how hard he tried to shut them out, the memories that had assaulted him all night would not leave. It wasn't often he had an episode so intense, but unfortunately, it wasn't unheard of either. He didn't know what had prompted the return of the most forceful pictures. The ones he never allowed himself to think about.

Shawn lowered the hand fisted in his hair and ran it across his chest, tracing the raised lines peppered over his flesh. The thin, pale scars were a daily reminder of the life he'd left behind. Some days they reminded him of how far he'd come. How he'd escaped and now had a family who wanted and cared about him, not just another typical foster home where the guardians were only interested in the check that graced their mailboxes. But other days, like today, they served as a catalyst, bringing forth the flurry of images and sensations associated with them. He tried to block them, but they came regardless.

A whirring sound roared in his ears, followed by the cracking of breaking glass and a soft tinkling, almost like a set of wind chimes, as the pieces scattered across the hardwood floor. Sticky warmth flowed over his fingers as the scent of copper and salt thickly permeated the air.

Shaking his head and pounding both fists against the wall, he tried pushing the images back. No matter how much time passed, if he allowed the memories to overtake him, he could still feel the searing pain ripping through him, almost as if the wounds were still fresh. He clenched his fists so tight his nails dug into the flesh of his palms, the pain bringing some relief from the memory onslaught.

He stood there for a long time, letting the heat dull to warm, and then finally, cold. Pushing the lever down, he stepped out of the shower, pulled a large blue towel from the rack and hastily ran it over his hair and body. The unbearable pressure was still present but had lessened to a dull roar. He had the relentless urge to hit something—that always helped to quell the beast and was the reason a punching bag hung in the corner of the basement—but time was not on his side that morning.

The pile of clothing he'd brought with him lay next to the sink. Quickly, he pulled on the jeans and nondescript gray t-shirt, and peered up at his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles surrounded his eyes—a sight he was becoming more and more used to. With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his still wet hair, forgoing a brush because it was just impossible to tame that mess.

After grabbing his bag from the back of the chair at his computer desk, he rushed down stairs, finding an impatient Lauren standing near the door, her arms crossed over her chest and tapping her foot. Lance stood at her side, his nose buried in one of the comics Camila had given him a couple of days before.