Page 5 of Always You

Checking one last time.

Another door led to a shower room. I opened it, scanning the interior. Skylights revealed the grey, snow-laden sky above and, somehow, that barrier between me and the cold made the room feel safe.

I tried to unbutton my coat, but my fine motor skills were next to useless, so I took the small knife I had on me at all times, flicked it open, staring at the blade, then pulling myself out of the shitty headspace I was sinking into, slid it through the cotton until the buttons fell off and the whole thing was open. There was a coat in the closet, something better, so I took off my backpack, then my old coat, and shoved the coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, out into the small yard, with my boots, before closing the door and checking it was locked again. Only then did I drop my bag to a chair with a thud, the strap of the backpack fraying and worn, barely holding together.

“Now what,” I muttered to the empty room. Layer by layer, I removed my clothes, laying them out on the tiled floor, wondering what to keep and what to discard, checking in the closet to see what layers were in there. There was blood on some things, other bits stuck to my skin, and I gritted my teeth to pull them away. I could leave but still have new clothes from that closet—T-shirts, fleeces, a new scarf, leather gloves without holes or wear.

They’d let me take them.

That was the point of me giving in and accepting charity. Right?

There was underwear, so I stripped bare, opened that damn back door again, shoved out everything that was mine, and shut it.

Locked it.

Then, I checked it, just in case.

Next, I secured the main door to the corridor by pressing a chair against it, under the handle. This way, no one could come in while I was in the shower.

I need to be clean.

I stared at the huge shower room, with the shelf, a seat, and an array of soap and shampoo dispensers screwed to the wall. I hesitated momentarily, wondering if it was okay to leave my stuff outside, but then picked up my bag and took it into the bathroom with me, unwilling to let my personal possessions out of my sight. It was an old habit, one that had kept me safe. I even took my knife in, and all of the clothes from the closet that would fit me, including some boots, and underwear. Everything went in there with me, piled on the other chair that I’d dragged inside, but when the bathroom door shut behind me with a soft click, I panicked I’d forgotten something.

Had I thrown something out that was important?

I yanked open my backpack and rummaged through, but everything I owned was in there.

I checked again, just in case.

Nothing missing.

Then, I turned the shower on.

And I stared at my reflection in the mirror until the fog of heat had stolen it.

All I could see was bent and broken, scarred and twisted, hurt… so badly hurt.

I won’t cry.

I crept into the shower, inching closer to the warm water, the initial touch of it a shock. It had been days since I’d been anywhere near a shower, accumulating more dirt and grime. The hospital had tried to clean me and threatened to cut my beard and my hair, but I hadn’t let them, walking out beforethey could finish when their touch was impersonal and forceful. They weren’treallythreatening me, and I didn’t blame them for thinking they knew what I needed, but I couldn’t let them touch me.

The water was hot—almost too hot—but I didn’t turn it down, lifting my face to the jets and yelping at the pain. The heat stung my neglected skin, turning it red, but it was also burning away the ingrained dirt and something deeper that had settled on me over the past weeks—despair.

I watched the murky water at my feet swirl down with filth from the streets, from sleeping rough, and from having things thrown at me. Some of the dirt didn’t lift, and I scratched at it, wondering at the flare-up of pain whether I’d uncovered bruises or sores. Then, I tipped handfuls of gel over me and stood away from the water, letting my skin soak.

When shampooing my hair, I had to scrub hard to get through the knots and grease. The water only ran clean after the sixth or seventh rinse. My cracked, rough hands felt clumsy and unfamiliar as they worked through the strands. It hurt a lot, but it was a good kind of hurt.

By the time I turned off the water, I was exhausted. My skin was sensitive to the touch, almost raw from the scrubbing. But stepping out of the shower, I felt a small sense of accomplishment. I was clean, probably for the first time since I left the Army, and at that moment, it felt like a small victory, a tiny step in some direction that wasn’t backward.

The bathroom was filled with the scent of lemon, but the stink of my backpack was obvious, so I emptied my precious life onto the bed, each part wrapped in plastic, then tossed the bag out to join my clothes, the pile of my life pathetically small in the snow. I pulled out new bags, which I’d seen by the boots—a sports bag of sorts, plus a new backpack—and I tidied each of my precious items into the new spaces. Then, I guessed I shouldget dressed and glanced at the sweats and T-shirt on the bed, but that was too much, too normal.

So, I got dressed in all my layers and sat on the bed, tied my boots, grabbed my bags, and hugged them tight to my chest.

Now what?

Chapter Four

Alex

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