Gharet gazed vacantly at the colorful totems rested upon a two-tiered cage hung on the neck of a shower nozzle. On the upper rack, a large navy blue "Men's Dandruff Control" towered adorably over the "Bubbleman Berry 2-in-1 Shampoo and Conditioner." A caped hero, which Gharet assumed to be Bubbleman, flew through the top hole in the "B" in "Berry" and across the small label. Below, Gharet found flowery scents and aromas: especially from the "Hair Care: Japanese Cherry Blossom" bottle. Everything that couldn't squeeze in with the family of shampoos could only observe them from the sides of the porcelain tub. This common rabble included conditioners, soap bars, and gels envious of the leering royalty.
Streams of water jetted from the nozzle and onto Gharet's broad forehead. Not much of his hair was left since the jerks from his old institution pushed him down and lopped off a section that once fell over his forehead and blanketed his left skull. The bullies had used glass shards, reportedly from a broken mirror in one of the bathrooms, to dig into the thin skin of Gharet's head. He gingerly grazed the tips of his fingers against the stitches spanning the wounded area. Even though the bleeding had long ceased and the flesh was mostly healed, a pulsing throb echoed from the scar to his ears, to his teeth, to his chest, to his shoulders, through his arms, rebounded off his fingertips, and faded back into his body. Gharet's bony frame, locked in agony and tension, quietly shook in place as steady streams continued to rush over his mutilated scalp and camouflaged his tears.
The warmth that was initially unbearable started to prove numbing as Gharet's pained shivering gradually slowed to deep sighs; his scratched back rose and fell in tempo with his breathing. The monotonous rushing of water finally registered to his ears, comforting him with white noise.
Once again, Gharet reached for his stitches. The proceeding sharp pangs mimicked the first but in this round, Gharet only wobbled on his feet for a few seconds before regaining his composure. Again. He felt the equivalent of a crisp slap to the skull. Again. Like the soft sting of nails lightly pressing into his skin. Again. Barely the sensation of drumming fingers. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. Gharet's skin was already soft and inflated from sponging the water, and yet he continued to tap away at his stitches. His right arm lamely hung to his side while his slight hunch accentuated his large, yet haunch, figure. Then, like a marionnete, he only used his left arm to pick at the threads while the rest of his body remained perfectly still. Gharet massaged the hem lines until he found a loose end, pinching at it until it was firmly in his grasp. He closed his eyes.
With no hesitation, Gharet held tightly and flicked out his arm. Gharet could still hear the sound of the water running across his head. Confused at the lack of pain, he opened his eyes and peeked at his pinched fingers, confirming that the translucent strand remained in his grip. His vision suddenly turned red. The stench of iron wafted up with the steam as he saw thin red streams trickle down his chest and past his legs. But there was no pain. Gharet only watched as the blood rivers became diluted and less opaque until the rich coloring was gone. At the drain, smoky patterns of reddish-brown swirled into its depths and vanished.
Gharet smiled, happy that the pain was gone and happy that he was no longer staying at the institution. He was certain his new family would treat him much better.
