The shower was cold and unwelcoming. The shampoo stung her eyes and poisoned her mouth, she spat it out into the cubicle and remembered how he would do the same.
As she scrubbed her swelling breasts, she recalled how he would hold her, the running water dribbling over and above them, but never between them. No, that was simply impossible. They were one and the same, they would never separate.
You should try short hair, he would say, water dripping down his sculpted nose, his broad hands resting on her shoulders.
She would smile in response, afraid to speak.
Turning off the water brought her back from the fragmented memory.
Bending over, she gazed at her knobbly knees and twisted toes, feeling the water drain from her shivering form.
She dried herself then stepped outside, immediately confronted by the body length mirror in her apartment.
This was her customary time to judge herself, according to the strict regimen of today’s society. Listening to the music resonating through the walls, she would examine the growing stretch marks along her thighs, spreading down her arms, along to her breasts.
And she would be happy, that she had finally lost her stick-thin apparatus, but also afraid, as the lightning bolts swamped her body with their ugly, blotched deformations.
Her cropped hair stuck out in a frenzy, dripping the last of the water down her quivering shoulders.
And behind her reflection, she still saw his.
This is the first story for my new series, A Tendency for Bitterness!
There are quite a lot more Halsey songs I’d like to write about, so no doubt you’ll be hearing more from her.
Let me know what you think! 🙂
Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt