𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈 everyone knows who she is. Worldwide model, covered in many vogue magazines, walked catwalks, and runaway. But people don't know what happens behind the curtains. Despite the many scandals that have plagued her reputation...
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It's been a week since everything came crashing down.
Winter hasn't moved from the bed in all that time. Chloe can barely stand to be in the same room without breaking down into tears. Bella sits quietly, her eyes blank, while Travis is a storm of frustration, simmering in the corner. Jayden does his best to offer what little comfort he can, but the weight of it all hangs heavy over us.
When I walk into the room, it feels like stepping into a void. The air is thick with silence, the kind that presses against your chest. Winter is lying there, staring at nothing, lost in some place none of us can reach. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, and the life that once flickered in her eyes is nowhere to be found.
I bend down beside her, the bed dipping slightly under my weight. Gently, I tuck a loose curl behind her ear, my fingers brushing against the coldness of her skin. "Let's take a shower, hm?" I whisper, keeping my voice soft, careful not to break her any further. But she doesn't respond; she doesn't even blink. Her eyes remain fixed on some distant point beyond me.
A tightness grips my chest as I rise and head to the bathroom. The faucet creaks as I turn it on, the sound of rushing water filling the silence. I pour in the bath salts, watching as they dissolve into the warm water, the scent of lavender slowly filling the space. I add some bath milk, watching the water cloud over, softening to a milky hue. The steam begins to rise, curling around my fingers as I test the temperature. Perfect.
Returning to the room, I hesitate for a moment at the sight of her, so fragile, so unlike the Winter I know. But I force myself to move forward. I carefully lift her from the bed, her body limp and light in my arms. She doesn't resist, doesn't react, just lets herself be carried like a doll. My heart clenches as I slowly strip away the layers of clothing, peeling off the fabric until she's left in just her undergarments. Each movement is slow, deliberate, as though handling something that might shatter at any moment.
I strip her until she was left in her undergarments. I lower her into the bath, the water wrapping around her like a warm embrace, though she doesn't seem to notice. She just stares at the wall, lost. I kneel beside the tub, and for a moment, I just watch her, trying to figure out how to reach her, how to bring her back.
I pour some shampoo into my hands and work it into her hair, my fingers gently massaging her scalp. Her curls are tangled, knotted from days of neglect, but I take my time, carefully untangling each strand. The bubbles froth under my touch, and I make sure to be gentle, to be patient. I rinse the shampoo out, the water running through her hair, down her back, before swirling down the drain.
Next, I work conditioner through her curls, letting it sit while I turn my attention to the rest of her. I grab a soft washcloth, dipping it into the warm water before running it over her skin, starting with her arms, down to her hands, her fingers. Her skin is cool to the touch, but I'm meticulous, covering every inch with the cloth. I move to her legs, her feet, washing away the days of neglect. Her body is still, and though I long for some sign of recognition, of life, I keep going, methodically cleansing her as though I could somehow wash away whatever it is that's haunting her.
