You stand under the water, eyes closed.  Your body is splashed with an ever-sensation of heat.  Absent-mindedly, you reach up to twist the old faucet.  It doesn’t want to turn, but you manage to squeak it to the left anyhow.  The water needs to be hotter; you need to feel the burn.  Some days anymore, it just seems nothing else can warm you up.  Damned economy.  Damned cheap school.  

“It’s too cold in my room,” you speak into the phone. “The heater doesn’t seem to work at all.”

“Well, some of the heaters just won’t work.”

And that was that.  No offer to send a handyman to tinker with the aging contraption, no suggestion for a space heater (which later will turn out to be in violation of building code).  All you got was a status-quo reply and a hoity-toity “have a nice day” line.

You sigh and continue inching the faucet farther to the left. Steam devours your body in the shower stall.  You hate community bathrooms the most.  The idea of a shower stall is most disturbing.  At least 16 other use this exact space to wash away their own grime.  Does it all really wash down the drain on the floor?  How much might you be standing in right now?

Shake your head out of your thoughts.  You’re better off never knowing the answer.

The body-wash spurts into your slick palm with a tiny toot from the bottle.  Almost gone, but you got the bottle only three days ago.  Have you really used so much already?  Mentally weigh the bottle before you drop it down to the tiled floor.  Apparently so.

It lathers gently on your arms and down your legs.  It fills the entire bathroom with a crisp, clean scent.  No floral, no vanilla sweets.  Just clean.  That’s why you picked it out.

You need to be clean.  But you feel so dirty, so diseased.  You just can’t manage to get clean enough, not since that guy bit you.  Run the soap over your shoulder.  The wound still hasn’t closed.  That bastard really did take a chunk out of your arm.

It’s broad daylight, must be around 3 o’clock.  You’re walking back to your building from class.  As you pass through this rather wooded, secluded area – texting of course – this wild, raving man comes out of nowhere.  He stops right in front of you, and you look up to see he’s not really human.  Something in the way his eyes fixate themselves on you tells you, he’s an animal.  He’s hungry.

“Are you okay?” You call out to him, partly out of concern, but mostly because you’re not sure what else to do.

He blinks, and in a second you’re being pushed to the ground.  A shredding, painful sensation comes from your right shoulder.  You can feel the tissues and muscle mass being ripped off of your body, and it hurts like no other hurt you’ve felt before.  But you’re too shocked to scream.  Or maybe you’ve been screaming, and just can’t hear yourself.  

When you wake up, you’re alone, under a clump of trees.  He must have dragged you there when he was full.  

The sky has gone purple and it’s starting to rain.  Your cell phone is still in your hand, the time reading 7:30pm.  You’ve been bleeding out for almost five hours now.  Your shoulder is numb, and your shirt is nearly black from all the blood.

How do you explain this scenario to people?

“Oh, Mom, I’m okay. I missed your calls because some guy took a chunk out of my arm and left me for dead beneath a bunch of trees. Can I have money for a new shirt?”

That’s not going to go over so well.

Turn off the water. Your fingertips are beginning to resemble raisins.  If you were still a little kid you might have the notion to appreciate it.

You step out of the stall and wrap your towel around your body.  The soft cotton brushes against your skin, caressing in a loving motion almost.  But you can’t feel it.  It seems your whole body has gone numb to everything but heat.  You sit for a moment in the lingering steam, wondering when that feeling will go away too.  As the steam clears, your body temperature drops.  You can feel that.

Looking over at your shoulder, you inspect the grotesque wound.  There was no way you could have gone to a doctor for this.  The bite marks certainly don’t look human.  There was no explanation for you not dying from shock.

The immediate skin around the gash has started turning a nice mint color.  It’s not so much of a surprise.  For the past few days you’ve noticed your skin has been growing paler; in some lights it seems almost lavender.  Maybe you ought to be tested for some crazy disease?

The wound is oozing now, oozing a strange substance.  You don’t even think it’s puss. Disgusting.

You can smell it.  It’s almost got the same scent of rotting meat.  You’re decaying.

You can’t show this to anyone.  What could they do about it?  Put you in a box, maybe.  Dig up a hole for when you finally decide it’s time to go.

You’re dead.  How long will it take for everyone else to notice?