Page 30 of Marked By Tank
Chapter 5
Julie
Thebathroomdoorclicksshut behind me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, nobody is looking at me.
Nobody is touching me.
Nobody wants anything.
I just stand there for a second with my hand still on the knob and breathe.
The bathroom is small. Old tile. Narrow sink. A shower that looks like it has been here longer than I have. But right now it feels like the safest room in the world.
Safe.
The word still feels borrowed. Fragile. Like if I hold it too tightly, it will break apart in my hands.
I look at myself in the mirror.
My hair is a mess. My freckles stand out too sharp against skin gone pale. My eyes look too big in my face, too tired, toohaunted. Like the girl in the mirror has not fully caught up to everything that happened to her yet.
Maybe she never will.
I strip off my clothes and step into the shower.
The hot water hits my skin, and I almost come apart on the spot.
I brace both hands against the tile and bow my head, letting it pour over me. My shoulders. My back. My stomach. My legs. The heat works into me slow and steady, loosening something that has been knotted tight since I woke up in that red room.
I scrub at my skin too hard at first.
Then I stop.
I make myself stop.
I wash my hair with the plain soap from the little shelf and let the water carry everything away. The motel. The bike ride. The fear stuck in the corners of me. The awful sticky feeling of being dressed up for strangers and sold like I was never a person at all.
By the time I turn the water off, my breathing is steadier.
I dry off with one of the towels from the closet and stare at the dresser for a second before I open it.
Spare clothes, he said.
He was right.
The first pair of pants I pull out is huge on me. I step into them anyway, tug them up, then laugh once under my breath when they slide right back down.
The second pair is worse.
I catch them before they hit the floor and just stand there in the bathroom, half annoyed, half exhausted, holding a pair of giant men’s sweats like they personally offended me.
“Great,” I mutter.
The shirts are easier.
I reach for one without thinking too hard and unfold it slowly.
My stomach turns.
