Missed By A Mile | ✓

11 | dense

[tw: mention of self harm, trauma, sexual harassment]

a/n: hi! i just wanted to put an additional note in here and let you know that i haven't written anything explicit, and everything is mentioned in conversations and memory, but if you find anything triggering, you don't have to continue and i'd be more than glad to summarize/fill you in on what happens in this chapter if you want! thank you <3

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The next day seems like a regular one.

Until I step into the shower.

There's this thing about trauma that's always bothered me to my very core: You think you're okay now. You're healing. You're safe. Things seem to be fine. You're surrounded by people you find comfort in. Years go by. You don't forget, but put it aside long enough to be able to breathe. But your subconscious doesn't.

You never know what it is that would shake it awake.

Which is why I have no idea what it is about that exact moment when the stream of water hits the top of my head, but a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature of the bathroom runs up and down my body.

I blink rapidly, the discomfort and the turmoil beginning to claw its way up my throat. My fingers find the skin of my arm where I already know are several brown and white scars—whether absentmindedly or on instinct, I don't know—and press down until I can feel the thin bumps.

There's never a day when I willingly look down at them, or address the fact that every bleeding line that I left on my skin now sits atop my skin in ridges. Like little monsters resting on pedestals. Above everything else. Unavoidable. I could pretend to ignore them all I want, but they'd undoubtedly be there no matter how much I try to act like they're not. Watching. Mocking. Undying.

Why, comes the question from the lucid part of my mind that has been pushed to the very back, left to fend for itself in the dark. Why is this happening? Why today?

With shaky hands, I reach for the knob to turn the shower off, but the blurriness that I had thought was because of the water doesn't go away. But the lack of sound helps me focus better on my breathing, so I brace my hands against the wall tiles and press my forehead in the middle. Inhale. Just like Layla had taught me. Exhale. Repeat until I can properly hear the echo of my own breaths.

When I can finally feel my limbs again, I push back and reach for the robe hanging behind the door without looking at it and wrap myself in the soft material.

It's oddly grounding, the way the cloth seems to rub the numbness off along with the stray drops of water that cling to my skin. I hold on to its drawstrings as if they're the last thing keeping me together for a few more seconds, and ditch the idea of a proper shower completely to step back into the comfort of my room.