shower

It was the break of dawn when she decided to run away.

Washing herself up, it seemed almost like a funeral rite. Its solemnity, its silence amidst the endless stream of dirtied water and salty tears, flowing into the drain in a way that could only be described as 'serene' , washing away her feelings. She lathered her shoulders, then moved on to comb through her jet-black hair with her soapy fingers, thinking of her life.

Then, something struck her.

_Why should she run away from him, that monster?_

" I'm fit, I'm young, I'm _strong_, he's abusive but _old_ and *weak*. He couldn't do anything if I tripped him. If I poisoned him during breakfast one day. _He can't insult me with mouth sewn shut, he can't hurt me with hands tied behind his back._"

And, as though the shower head dispensed hatred, when she turned it off, she found herself calm, rational again. She suddenly felt like ...fighting on. Yet, she still felt uneasy about herself. Like sitting in a secret eden in the middle of the world, ended.