A shower. I can have a shower.
Spencer comes in after Natalie leaves
I can have a shower. Not a bath.
"I can have a shower," I say, out loud.
Spencer ties her hair back with the band around her wrist. It's not a bath.
"Alright then," she says. She sounds worn. She's beautiful, really. Easier to fuck.
"Natalie said I should." She's confused.
"Natalie?" She asks.
"The doctor." I reply.
"Okay."
The hospital does have a shower. It's down the corridor that's silent due to all of the other patients having been pulled under their drug-induced hazes. Spencer helps me to the shower in the same way that she helped me to the bathroom the last two times, with an arm around my waist to support me.
This bathroom is colder than the other one. It's as cold as the corner shop. It's got the same linoleum flooring as the other bathroom and the same blue cubicles, only these cubicles have shower heads instead of toilet paper and crying and coming girls inside. Spencer takes off my hospital gown for me and tries not to be scared of all of the dried blood that's between my legs.
"Fuck," she mutters softly under her breath.
Spencer swears when she's scared. It's endearing.
"She gave me pads," I tell her.
"Who did?" The blood has made her paler.
"Natalie. For the bleeding."
"That's good."
I stand back with my arms wrapped around my bare and bloody self as Spencer opens a cubicle door and turns on the shower with a press of the metal button. She holds her hand beneath the spray. She's checking that's it's not too hot or cold. She's checking that it's just right.
Goldilocks was Lola's favourite fairytale.
"Okay," Spencer says, stepping out of the open cubicle. The cuffs of her jeans are soaking up the running water and they're beginning to go dark. "Tell me if that's alright for you."
I do. It's alright. It's okay.
"Okay," Spencer says again. "I'll be outside."
The bathroom door closes so quietly that I hardly hear her leave. I lock the door of the cubicle like I did in the bathroom before, even though I know I have no reason to.
I trust Natalie. There's an odd memory of me locking my bedroom door. Maybe it was Lola.
The water's alright. It's okay.
A lot of blood that goes down the plughole. Most of it's old and it flakes off of my inner thighs before swirling like an artist's wet dream around my ankles and slipping away forever. There's no hint of any baby left on me or on the linoleum by the time I've finished scrubbing at my skin with no soap. It's sad, really.
There's soap available from a dispenser but I don't use it. Everything is okay.
Everything hurts, but a little less.
I stay in the shower long after I'm clean, standing under the warm spray with my eyes closed and imagining that I'm outside in the rain by a tube station with a boy who's got lovely eyes and cheeks like my dead sister. I stay in the shower and I keep my eyes closed and I imagine that it's raining like it was the day I met Kieran outside the tube station.
