Cleansing the wounds, frigid water washed over the lesions and dyed the puddle at my feet. Pulled muscles in my neck ached after I’d withdrawn from the shower’s temperature. I worked it as best I could. Rolled my head. Pop. The exertion only relodged the stiff burden into an equally bad position. Tight pressure pushed out from the new spot; a hard layer of reinforcement had formed under the skin.

My fingertips grazed the gashes and bruises. Petting the sore flesh brought along pain before the sickness hit. I believed truly, falsely, that I stayed undiluted in imprisonment, but my own blood ran the water red. The men’s eyes, always watching, seeing through the dark in ways I couldn’t, were pins in me. Thick skin could scrounge courage, but the mind kept score. Even if I hadn’t noticed. Sometimes I did think: I’ve done this to myself. Only by then, it was already too late. What was remorse worth anyway when there was nothing to do about it other than regret? Time all but pauses when you become affixed to the past whether in yearning or mourning. The ever-trudging onward clock was all that I had to look forward to. Time heals all wounds, or so they say.

I hung my head under the spray till the cold became tepid and the stream clear. Running over my face, the water tickled my lips. I licked it off in parched desire before opening my mouth upward to the nozzle. It tasted of iron. Specks of soot or dirt crunched between my teeth, I choked on the liquid at the first swallow. Left wanting and disappointed, I spit it out.