A girl stands under a flow of scalding water. Steam rises around her toes, circling her legs, wreathing around her body. Tiny tendrils of steam escape the tub; tiny tendrils of sorrow mixed with rage that dance through the bathroom.

The mirror catches the mist. Sucks it up, holds it inside. Trapped in the mirror, the mist transforms the world into a steamy otherworld. There is room for nothing else in the glass.

The girl is still under the hot steam of water. Her skin is pink--her fingers puckered--her toes wrinkled. There is soap in her hair--little bubbles of clean that drip down her back, down her face, into her eyes. The soap stings. It brings tears to her eyes.

The water washes the soap away as she scrubs, but it is not enough. She must do it again.

A small glob of shampoo fills her palm. Quickly, she closes her fingers over it. She plunges her hands into her hair--rubs her fingers over her scalp. Scratching a wound that will not heal.

The soap begins to burn--her scalp cleaned raw--and yet she scrubs. How much soap now? Rinse and repeat, as needed.

It doesn't work. She can't wash you out--and now the water begins to cool. She turns the dial, making it hotter, but it will never be quite hot enough.

She is defeated. She turns off the water. She sits in the tub, arms wrapped around her knees--but it isn't protection. It is only denial.

The room cools. Her body cools. Water drips from her--her hair, her arms, her legs. Each drop slithers toward the drain, where it joins the others. They form a puddle before they are sucked into oblivion. Into whatever hell awaits them beneath the drain.

Goose bumps prickle her skin, but she does not move. The water on her skin is almost gone now--only her hair still drips. Tiny trickles down her back.

Her scalp itches. Burns with memory. She can't wash you out. She can't forget.

She weeps. It is not the soap. Was not the soap. Fear fills her eyes and spills down her face.

She can't wash you out of her hair.

She can't forget
    can't escape
          run away