...

I stood in the shower, my scalp drinking warmth. I drew dismembered  figures on the steam of the glass door; and signed my name beneath a tattered limb. The loops in my signature were curvy and smooth, like a long bend on country roads. I remember Mam telling us not to do this, because it apparently left drawin marks after being cleaned. Shampoo suds slid heavily down the crease of my back.
For a brief second, I imagined myself as an unfortunate Jew; trapped in the tight and crowded enclosure of a gas chamber. Instead of bubbly suds, hot oil rolled slowly down my skin and I heard the chorus of protesting presences around me. Some wailed in agony, others in synchronized shouts of aggression. There was no one in the shower with me, but I heard them well; or perhaps I had pressed the palms of my hands against my ears and the shouts were really the echo of water pressure against my scalp. It sounds exactly like it does when you're inside a warm and safe house, while rain thunders from outside, at all angles of the house and manipulated by a harsh wind. I put my hands over my ears too much; I even sleep on my side with the left side of my face pressed into my palm. The shower cools suddenly, but to a firm warmth. It's not as hot as it was a few minutes ago, and I sink against the cool wall. It takes me a few seconds, however, to register my reality. The glass around me is a gallery of smudged and overlapped-with-steam signatures and jagged draws. The space constricting me really is a bit tight... I miss our old bathtub. From its place draped over the door, the thirsty towel sits and waits.