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༉˚*ೃ ᵒ⁷. 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋!
( tw. mentions of trauma and injury, sensory overload )
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 cool and clean within the bath—scrubbed free of all the blood that had left Tea's wounds during the night earlier. Steam rose into the air and fogged up the mirror as heat ran off the tub. Tea was submerged up to her chest, knees drawn up to point at the ceiling. The water hurt her feet a little, but it wasn't so bad anymore. As long as she made sure not to get an infection. Her fingers stung too as she lowered them below the surface. A hiss left her bitten lips.
Tea grabbed a freshly unwrapped bar of lavender soap and started scrubbing herself with it. That was one thing about Dorotea, when she felt dirty, she felt disgusting. Sometimes it took her hours to get clean just the way she wanted. She started with her legs first because they were still littered in tiny wounds that bled on the occasion, gently washing soap over the injuries and the tatters of her knees. It stung, but what was new? Tea tried her best to flex her foot up out of the water, but it burned so much that she was forced to let it stay.
Dorotea ran her lathered fingers up and over each of her arms, her shoulders, making sure every inch was scrubbed just to perfection. She scrubbed so hard that her skin turned pink and tender. The mirror was fogged up with steam, but Tea tried her very best not to look at it—she didn't want to get another scare like the one she'd had a few days ago. The bathwater was scalding, but she'd always preferred it that way. Something about the cold made her feel sick and afraid, it made her think of nightmares or wastelands, and gave her shivers all over. It seemed to remind her of something, but Tea couldn't think of quite what. Her skin stung a little where she harshly scrubbed it clean. Burned, burned.
The soap scrubbed over her wrists harshly, rough and unrelenting. It jolted something sharp within her—pulled something out of the depths of her minds, out of the very corners of her thoughts.
A knife—God, a knife—deep and sharp and quick opening the gentle layers of her skin like fire and ice. It sliced away at the flesh of her wrist. White-hot. It sent every nerve alight with deep pain. The hand controlling it was not her own—but neither could she tear it away. Tea must have been screaming, because the pain was uncompared. There was a bright light, but mostly it was just the pain. The blinding pain. And there were voices too, and flashing light and flashing images. What remained was the excrutiation. The scalpel cut deep.
