The water beat upon her back like a thousand tiny lashes. Even as hot as the water went, the pain wasn’t enough. The punishment wasn’t enough. The leaky faucet of her tears was a welcome coolant to her fiery skin. Unwilling to accept any relief, she balled up her fists and pushed the traitors away.

The scabs on her knuckles disinegrated, leaving the angry raw tissue behind. Without pause, she bashed her fists into the shower walls. The blood took it’s time trickling down the wall before swirling into intricate patterns at her feet. She paused briefly to wander if blood could stain grout, and shook the thought off.

The beat of her heart seemed unbearable, breathing a trial, and simply existing a far too difficult task to bear. She realized if she could simply quiet the screaming in her head, the litany of thoughts and accusations running roughshod over any thought of sanity, she could hear him rustling around in the next room.

The hardest part was discerning which torture was the worst.