I drank too much. Again.
The only conceivable solace I could find in my extremely hungover state came in the form of steam and scalding water, and I indulged in the only way I thought possible: laying in the shower.
Thoughts of the night before come and go through the lens of a broken kaleidoscope, each drink remembered with a punishing throb from the inside of my skull. I’d like to say I was celebrating, going out on the town with friends or participating in some kind of party. The truth is, this is just the latest stunt in my own shameful self-indulgence. Like the ones before, I swear it’s the last time. Deep down, I know I’m only lying to myself.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. My only keeper of time is the slowly cooling temperature of the water, one I ignore by slowly turning the knob further with my foot. I don’t think of the added money on the energy bill or the wasted time of my day off, my only concern is the soothing water that berates me, and the muggy air with each labored breath.
I live alone. No significant other. No kids.
While I’m happy there’s no one to see me like this, a part of me wishes there was. Someone to judge my decisions, maybe someone to encourage me to be better. Someone to help take this pain away.
Briefly, I open my eyes and look around my small enclosure in the shower. The beige vinyl covered in trickling water is somehow soothing, a silent comfort as I watch the mist collect on my skin. For a moment I look up at the shower head to see the continuous rain it bestows upon me. It’s a cheap shower head; one of the streams sprays out of line, directly into the wall where a washcloth is hanging. The insignificant defection doesn’t bother me, but its soaked the rag fully, causing a repetitive drip that lands on the ledge of the tub. A drip-drop that annoyingly splashes my face.
My head throbs, my neck is stiff, and my blood pressure feels high. I ignore the annoying splash and nestle back into the crook of my arm, trying to block out the memories of the night before, and the nights before that.
Just as I feel myself succumb to the dampened relaxation and fall asleep, I hear a noise.
A tapping.
I think I imagine it, so I ignore it. I stir uncomfortably, repositioning my face so water doesn’t collect in my ear. I focus on the running water, hearing the rhythm of the shower’s stream, with the occasional drip-drop of the soaked washcloth. I think of how I should’ve saved something from the night before, a little hair of the dog to ease the brunt of my ailments. If only I wasn’t so damn self indulgent and didn’t drink the last drop of everything I had.
I hear the tap again. Louder, this time.
I open my eyes, the weight of lead shutters lifting as I look around me. I see the beige surround and the trickling water. With an exasperated sigh I shift and try to prop myself up to look around better, but each movement is taxing and feels like too much work. I poke my head past the shower curtain briefly and see the bathroom door still shut as I left it. The bathroom is empty, there’s nobody there. I listen for the sound again, blinking away water that collects on my face.
For a time, there’s nothing.
I lean forward and turn the knob on the faucet again, increasing the heat. It’s feeling chilly, and I just want a little more time before I transition from here to my bed. As I nestle back into the same awkward position, I hear it again. I feel an uncanny anxiety creep over me, followed by the scrawl of goosebumps.
It’s coming from the wall in the shower.
I find myself sitting there, looking at the beige wall. I must be losing it. There’s no way there could be anything there; behind the wall the shower is built into is just the walk-in closet of my bedroom. There’s nothing in there but clothes and boxes.
I need to stop drinking, I think to myself.
I dismiss the noise and settle back in, resting my cheek in the crook of my arm before closing my eyes. I focus on my breathing, the slow inhale and exhale of steam as I mentally find a better place. I focus on the water again, listening to the rhythmic stream followed by the drops from the hanging washcloth—
I hear the tap again. Louder than before.
The sound makes me jump, and I look around nervously. I subconsciously make a mental note of everything in the shower with me: beige surround with trickling water, a squeeze bottle of shampoo on the ledge next to me, a rounded bar of soap sitting dangerously close to the edge… everything seems in place. I listen for the noise, putting my hand on the wall to see if I can feel it. I wait in the downpour of water, feeling strangely nervous.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I stifle a laugh and rub my eyes. I have to get my shit together. This is ridiculous.
I sigh and start to lay down again, shivering against the cool air trying to creep in from the other side of the shower curtain. I adjust the curtain to try and keep the humidity in before getting into position. Just as I settle in I notice something I hadn’t before. Something so small it hadn’t caught my attention until now.
There’s a crack in the caulking of the tub, almost disguised by the build up of soap scum and mold. I put my fingers on the broken seal, and it crumbles under my touch. Bits of old silicone wash away, revealing a bigger crack. I feel the faintest chill of a breeze coming through, one that gets worse the more I mess with it. I think of what could possibly be on the other side, something other than drywall and water damage. There’s no way it could be anything else. The closet is on the other side.
Against my better judgment, I decide to look in. I kneel down and take a peek, propping myself up on the ledge of the tub as I get closer and closer. I think I see something moving, and I hold my hand up to shield my face and better see through the steam.
Deep in the darkness of the cracked seal, there’s nothing.
I laugh to myself again and wipe my face. Of course there’s nothing. I’m just hungover, tired, and reaching. I need to sleep. I just need to sleep.
I turn the knob again to make the water hotter and lay in the shower again, feeling foolish. Just a few more minutes and I’ll get out. I just need a few more minutes.
Nestling awkwardly into the crook of my arm I try to fall asleep again. I take a deep breath and let it out, trying to rid myself of the tension I have fabricated. There is no tapping. There never was. I focus on the spraying shower, letting it soothe me as I sink further into my own misery. I let the ambience wash over me, along with the occasional drip-drop from the hanging washcloth.
Drip-drop.
Drip-drop.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I feel cool droplets hitting my temple, followed by an ice cold draft. I shiver and turn so the water warms me, but the draft is too chilling to go away. I want to ignore it, desperately just trying to sleep and forget and be far away from my own thoughts. The drips continue, hitting my face and hair more aggressively until they’re hitting my nose and eyelids. I think of the washcloth hanging, trying to rationalize the annoyance so I can just let it go.
Until something touches my hair.
There’s a woman dangling above, inches from my face. Her hair is long and soaked, tangled strands dangling as they drip water onto my face. I try to scream but the air is caught in my lungs, her features petrifying me more as I have no choice but to look at her. Her eyes, mouth, and nose are missing, bloody gaping holes residing where they should be. Her naked torso is pale and abnormally long, twisting in a way that seems impossible. The rest of her is concealed by the darkness of the hole she comes from, a jagged tear where the tub surround has been peeled back to let her through. Roaches and spiders start to pour in behind her, lining the walls as I stare into the missing features of her face. She looks like she’s trying to cry, but can only babble with swollen lips.
Without warning water erupts from the holes in her face, a gushing icy blast that chokes the scream in my throat as it finally comes. I try and kick my feet but I can’t move, each limb feels too heavy to lift under the weight of her presence. The water is dark and burns my eyes, and I can feel the tub filling around me. I watch her slowly fade as the water rises, blotting everything out until the last thing I see are the bugs skittering over the water’s surface.
I wake to the sound of the water. I open my eyes and see the beige surround of the shower, and see that I’m still laying in it. No hole in the wall, no bugs, no woman; only the same crack near the ledge where I had first seen it. I had fallen asleep.
I sit up and shiver, my limbs aching from being in such a weird position for so long. The cascading water has lost most of its warmth, and I reach up and shut it off. It takes me a while to get to my feet, but I’m determined to get the hell out of the shower. I throw back the curtain and grab a towel, drying my face and hair before stepping out onto the bath mat. I’m shivering and ready to find clothes, but my first step out of the shower makes me freeze.
The bath mat is completely saturated, and the floor is soaked.
At first I think I left the curtain open too much, but the thought fades when I keep looking. The bathroom door is wide open, and the water continues into the hall, like I had already gotten out of the shower. Clutching the towel I follow the trail, shivering as I leave the warmth of the bathroom behind me.
A trail of wet footprints leave the bathroom, and the air is cold as I follow them. I expect to find the woman waiting for me, but when I step into the living room, I find it empty. I only find my apartment door open, the footprints leading out.