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She knew a moment of pure gratitude that the shower sported a ledge she could sit on, so there was no danger of her slipping due to her awkwardness and lack of mobility. But as she switched on the water to warm, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and stopped short.
Shyla leaned on the vanity and stared at the bedraggled creature who looked back at her, and she promptly burst into tears.
The sight of her lank, greasy hair, liberally matted and encrusted with blood, the newly applied dressing on her temple which glowed stark white against her dull skin, and the unsightly bruise that bloomed a rancid yellow green across her cheekbone and under her eye was the last straw.
She was a wreck. A complete mess.
She must have been nothing to her three erstwhile rescuers than a convenient fuck hole. And like the idiot she was, she’d accommodated them.
Shyla crawled into the shower and let the hot water mingle with her hot tears. She ripped off the dressing and liberally lathered her hair, ignoring the sting as the shampoo trickled onto the laceration.
She slathered her long locks in conditioner then teased a brush through them until all the snags were gone.
Finally, as her tears slowed, she scrubbed her body, and washed away the last vestiges of their feel, their touch; and as she rinsed off and the clear water sluiced over her clean skin, she allowed the last of her misery to drain away down the plug hole with it and reiterated one last promise to herself.
No regrets.
