Bathwater

I breathe in as I step into the tub. The water is too hot, but the burning sensation feels good to my pale skin. In a cold world like mine, any warmth is welcomed with open arms.

I tug at my hair as I sit down, pulling the strands out of its messy bun. I run my fingers through the frizzy tangles and sigh quietly. I place my hands on either edge of the tub and slowly sink into it, closing my eyes as my head hits the water. Eventually, my hands slip in as well, my body submerged in the translucent fire.

I listen to the sound of the bathwater draining slowly. I move my arms so my hands are at either side of my head, rather than resting next to my thighs. I touch my hair with my fingertips, admiring how soft it feels as it glides between my fingers. The strands feel like silk and I find comfort in the way they brush against my face when I turn my head.

I remember the way I used to play in the bath when I was young. I remember the way I used to pretend I was a mermaid when I slipped into the water. I miss the innocence and curiosity that came and went with my youth.

I imagine a vast ocean surrounds me instead of my bathroom as I run my hands through my smooth hair once more. I reach down and run my fingers up my legs, pretending the skin was replaced with scales. I lift my chin so that my mouth is out of the bathwater and breathe in. I pretend the air is water and let myself drown.