Shower

    The showerhead above me glimmers in the rosiness of my heart-rimmed sunglasses. I adjust my long body to fit the bathtub in the sanctuary of the bathroom. 

Fuzziness once felt full. Fuzziness now feels empty. I’m anchored in the porcelainity of my bathtub. This is the closest I’ve been to a shower in days. 

Smoke filters out through the screen in the bathroom, my cheap cigarettes wait on the counter right next to the hair-drier-- she’s in reach and the plug in the port is slightly in. If it falls in on accident, it’d be an accident. 

    Much like the knots growing the hair that belongs to my scalp, knots fill each and every inch of my stomach. I eat once a day to stop shaking when I shake from not eating that day and if I eat more than once a day, the food travels through my throat and then out of my mouth and then in chunks. 

    It smells like a skunk saw me and felt threatened by the semi-human sludge trying to disguise herself in heart-shaped, rosie sunglasses and sprayed the entire room with little control over where the hell he sprayed. 

    I haven’t gone to work because I smell so gross and I don’t want to leave this tub. I can’t recall the day of the week but it’s been five days since I died.  My best friend hasn’t stopped calling. She doesn’t know of my condition and I can’t have her know.

My phone rings again. Dancing to the ringtone, I grab one of my cheap cigarettes and inhale all the nicotine in its glory. It’s the second day I’m fully conscious and I’ve contacted no one.

    I disappeared the night of Valentine’s Day in front of a church to catch up with an old friend. Only what  I wanted  (to go to a late night diner and catch up) and what he wanted (to break in his new car) never meshed together. 

    I always left my apartment keys outside and under a mat in the stairs; I only told my mother this and Kara this-- wondrous women those two are. Kara would call my mother if she hadn’t gotten a hold of me. My phone died in the darkness of the past few days-- that’s why I charged it when I finally came back. 

    I agreed on the terms we go get late-night food. Problem is, I don’t know if I got any-- I can’t recall if I ate that night  but I can hear the echoes of his voice. As he kept driving, he found my old neighborhood and turned into the area next to a Catholic School near a Catholic Church. 

    My phone rings as I lower myself into the empty tub. Knocks on the kitchen door boom loudly.  I’m not here. I’m dead.

    Though the night that night felt cold against the car door and car seats, the rain staccatoed uneasily onto his sunroof as the streetlights mocked me as I desperately reached out for them. 

    Kara’s standing in the kitchen staring at me. Funny thing is I normally hear the knob turning. Perhaps in my deadness, I did not. Tears fill her eyes. She runs up to me and hugs me crying. She thought I died. 

    Hysterically she begins her tale of how she found me. On the early hours of the fifteenth I called her apparently-- screaming into the phone-- well more screeching. Somehow she was able to calm me down and I promised I’d call in the next few  days. But I hadn’t. How did I call if all I remember is collapsing into my bed?

    Each joint inside of her arm helps me stand up, I hear them crack. I’m eye to eye with Kara but I’m standing in the tub. Nothing is wet. She wraps both arms around me-- tight and I can’t breathe. I put my arms around her. 

    After the embrace, I step out of the tub; “Your hair is filthy.” She turns the faucet in the tub, running her hand under the water to adjust the temperature. The floor feels cold beneath my feet. “You need to eat.” Kara pangs a bit, the super-hot water’s burned her a touch.

    In my kitchen I see a bagel. She tells me it's for me and it's my favorite. Everything with cream cheese. It's even toasted! Fresh Everything Bagels smothered in cream cheese, they’re so dang tasty. I hear Kara sigh in the bathroom and the shower turns on. 

    “I don’t want to get my body wet right now!” crumbs from the bagel fall out of the little corners of my mouth. 

    Kara comes into the kitchen and takes a bottle of shampoo out of the purse. She cringes as she touches my hair, sticking her tongue out for the full effect. As she reenters the bathroom, I look at my phone. So many missed calls. People are wondering where I am, where I’ve been, why I’m not answering my phone. 

I take the ponytail holder out of my hair. In the mirror, I notice the hair is just this shape now and there’s not much I can do to stop it. She tells me to take my glasses off, which I oblige. The white walls come at me again. Clear water pours into the tub as steam fills the air. 

    As she runs her hands through my hair,  I set my head under the steady stream running through the gnats, dripping onto the porcelain floor. The water runs through as Kara’s hands sprinkle copious amounts of shampoo in my hair. After it rinses out, she hands me a bottle of conditioner. 

    “Please take a shower,” she walks to the doorway, “I’m staying over and I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

    When she leaves, she closes the door. I catch a technicolor reflection staring at me. Dark circles fill the underneath of her eyes. She moves with me as I pour conditioner into my hands and run it through my hair. 

    After my shower, Kara’s hands pass me a new shirt and new pajama pants through the door. I’ve worn the same pants since the night I died. I put them on and I go to the couch where she’s put tea on the coffee table. She reaches for me to join her.

    He motioned for me to go sit in the back seat with him and I didn’t want to. He kept telling me to and that he missed when it was just us two. 

    Next thing I know, I’m on the couch with Kara and my head is on top of her lap. Her fingers run through my hair. Apparently when she reached out, I passed out. Tears fill up underneath my eyes. Everything’s in color. Kara shushes me and lets me know she’s here and it’ll be alright and that he can’t get me now and that I’m on my couch in my apartment. 

    She gets up. I sit up and sip my tea. I’m conscious for all of this. I hear she’s opening up every window, allowing the clean air to sweep the skunk’s frightened mess. Although I’m silent, she’s muttering jokes, I crack a smile. 

    When she comes back in the room, she holds my black, thick-rimmed, large framed glasses and hands to me. As I put them on, I see each object clearly as the sun goes through the window to point them all out to me. She sits down next to me and hugs me tight and I hug her back just as tight.

    The darkness strolls along and she walks me to my room. She has me get into bed, she tucks me in and stays next to me. I look up at the ceiling fan as she holds me. My glasses sit on my table beside me, and my best friend is holding me. Perhaps this is the first day I’ve showered and not been in a haze of fuzziness. I’m not alone. I’m alive.