She was perfectly in control of her body. I could see it from the way she moved. Carefully, her toes tested the water, slipped in only when she was sure that it wouldn’t burn.
I wouldn’t burn you, I wanted to say. I wouldn’t hurt you.
Of course, that wasn’t quite true.
“Why did you try to kill yourself?”
It was a simple question, but from the way she reacted I could tell that it was one she hadn’t had to answer in a long time. Her plump pink lips parted, her chestnut hair darkening almost to black at the roots from where her sweat had moistened it. A strand of hair lay stuck to her neck, and I wanted to brush it away and kiss the spot it had left.
“I was bored,” she said.
“Of life?”
“Yes.” The word slipped out past her lips, and she stared as though watching it go. I was silent. I wanted to listen. I wanted to understand.
“I hated my parents,” she said. “My stepdad was horrible, and my mom didn’t stop him when he…”
She waved her hand at me as though I knew what was in that lacuna - a lifetime of abuse, maybe, or some kind of emotional torment. The memories choked in her mouth, and she looked down. Was she looking at her body under the clear hot water? Or was she trying to find her reflection there between the ripples?
The silence was broken by a single drop of water falling from the faucet into the tub. Her head jerked up and she continued as though reawakened.
“I didn’t like anything… anything at all. It was like the world was empty, black and white instead of color, like you said. Mostly black.”
“Black?”
I thought of my shadow creeping in on the edges of my life, narrowing my focus until I could think of nothing else but how to get rid of it.
“Nothing looked like it used to. Food didn’t taste like food. I’d eat an apple, and halfway through I would realize that I had been eating it. I would go out with my friends, and they’d all be laughing and happy. I’d laugh, too, because I didn’t want them to know that there was this thing that was wrong with me. But there wasn’t anything inside. I imagined my heart inside my chest, and there was nothing but a hole there.”
She looked up at me, the shine that meant sadness in her eyes. Lifting my hand, I wiped her cheek as solemnly as a priest. Saying nothing. This was her confession. She swallowed, all the while searching my face as if I had the answer.
“And I was curious.”
“Curious?” I raised one eyebrow, encouraging her on.
“To see if there was anything else. Anything more that happens after… this world is over.”
I lowered the washcloth.
“And?”
“And?”
“Is there anything else?”
I realized that I had been holding my breath as I asked the question. As though this girl, this beautiful young woman in my cage, could give me the answer to something I had long decided had no answer. Strands of hair fluttered loose as she shook her head.
“I didn’t actually kill myself. My parents found me before I could die.”
“But did you see anything at all?” I leaned forward. Her eyes were deep pools; I could trust her. Had she found truth, somewhere beyond this world? It was what I hoped, what I feared. “Did you get close?”
Biting her lip, she blinked away the last of her tears. My pulse was pounding, and I thought that she could hear my anticipation, so loud was the beating of my heart. The seconds drew out; I clenched the cloth in my hand.
“No,” she said finally, looking surprised at the emotion in my face. “No. There’s nothing after this.”
I turned away from her to breathe out my disappointment. The stone of the granite tub felt warm under my hand, like a living thing.
“Gavriel?” she asked.
My face snapped shut as I smiled at her. No more. I would draw her out as much as I could, but I could not risk drawing myself out.
“You remind me of a poem,” I said. “The last lines of a poem. Would you like to hear them?”
She nodded. She was confused. So was I.
“The shooting stars in your black hair, in bright formation, are flocking where, so straight, so soon? —Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin, battered and shiny like the moon.”
Picking up the bottle of shampoo, I squeezed out a dollop into my hand.
“Come,” I said. “Let me wash your hair.”
Her legs tucked to her chest, she faced away from me. I cupped handfuls of water over her hair. My hands stroked her head, massaging her scalp down to the tops of her trapezius muscle. The shampoo rose in clumps of thick white foam on her dark hair. Her shoulders settled against the cream granite as I worked the shampoo through her hair, her skin smoother than any polished stone.