HAZEL
When I was finally lowered into the bath, the warm water hit my skin like a shock. I sucked in a breath, the sting burning through every bruise, every scrape.
Angela didn’t look away. She didn’t apologise. She didn’t say it would be okay. She just waited until I adjusted, then rolled up her sleeves and reached for a clean cloth. Her movements were slow, almost methodical. She washed the dirt off my arms, my shoulders, my hands, avoiding the rope burns with a precision that made my throat tighten.
She wasn’t being tender. She was being careful. And somehow that was worse. It meant she understood exactly how much I hurt without me saying anything. Every now and then, she paused and looked at a mark a little too long. Not with sympathy, more like assessing damage. Cataloguing it. K
