the threads in her head

Wet and heavy, wet and heavy. This was how the water drummed down from the shower head. Wet and heavy, heavy and wet, pressing, pressing. Oh! He felt like, wanted to, just, sink down, way down, sit down, crouch down, hide his face, lower his head, avoid looking.

The walls were cold, and he bit back the exclamation he wanted to give upon accidentally leaning back on that cold. The white tiles surrounded him, the water continued to drum. Wet and heavy, heavy and wet, wet and cold, heavy and cold. It was cold! What a shock. He hurriedly turned the tap, it was still cold, cold, cold! Did he turn on the heater? He couldn't really recall. But it was left on, most of the time. It has to be on. It had to be, it had to be, the impulse to cry was strong in his heart, and then, and then,

Warm water gushed out.

But it was still wet. It was still heavy. Heavy and wet, wet and heavy. The angry strong tears of his shower head, gushing, the sounds of water hitting ground, water pounding against body, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, patter-pitter, drizzle, drizzle, drizzle!

Could he cry, could he shed tears to? Did he have it within himself to cry? Cry, he told himself, cry, cry, cry! Don't you feel remorse? Don't you wish you knew for sure that you have repented? The weight of his actions pressed down on him, and he wished he was free from it, but yet all he could do was think, think about them, and this wasn't guilt, this wasn't remorse, was it? Because he was wanting, wanting to feel remorse and guilt, to repent.

But he was surprisingly numb. Numbed, and thinking.

In his intensity of thoughts he envied the shower head, who was able to have water pouring out so much so, and thus cry in that sense. How bitterly he almost hated that shower head then - but yet how could he blame the shower head, envy it for what is its nature? His inability to cry - that was the real reason for his current anguish; his lack of motivation to cry, his numbness, his pain, his conflict and turmoil.

Useless useless. It was all useless. He yearned to feel guilt, feel remorse, feel pain for it all. Or were such thoughts enough? Could a desire, a craving, an admittance of his weakness and plea for help work?

The water drummed on. Heavy and wet, heavy and wet. He felt defeated, worn, like tired ancient stone, beaten by the never-ending flow of water. He breathed, choked. And then breathed again.

It was about time to get out of the shower. He turned the tap off, quiet. One hand pulled his shower curtain to one side, another reached for the towel at the other end. He buried his face into it, breathed in that clean smell of it, and toweled his hair dry, head still bent.

It wasn't long before he rose his head. There were symbols on the mirror, letters. He looked long and hard, and he suddenly felt like laughing, about the sheer magic of that moment. He did not laugh out loud though. But he was considerably happier.

Written on the mirror by a childish hand was, "God ♥ Me".