I blink as I watch the sun rise higher through the glass doors of my room. I’ve been staring at them for the whole night, hardly blinking. I sit up on the bed and look at my burned hand. Flipping the covers to the other side, I stand and walk over to the bathroom.
I wash the remains of the ointment from my forearm under the tap. I watch my reflection in the mirror, taking in the damage. Raising my hand up to my left cheek, I lightly graze my fingers over the purplish mark. I shut eyes close, letting a lone tear slide down my right cheek.
Everything is over now.
I slip off my dress and undergarments on the floor and stand under the warm shower. I wash my hair and body to make the memories go away. But it’s of no use. I still feel disgusted, terrified, violated as I step out of the show
