Disclaimer: This is a piece I wrote years ago. It's probably my favourite of my 'twist in the tail' stories, but for the voice and characterization. It's harsh, it's horror, it's strong.

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The water coming out of the shower is cold. It's been cold for a while. I know if I wait, the water heater might be able to catch up. I might be able to take a shower without freezing. But, I can't wait.

I feel dirty. I feel dirty all over. I still feel his hands on me, all over. I smell his breath, his body. I've scrubbed myself red, but still I feel his hands.

The worst is inside me. I can't get that clean enough. Front or back. The filth is still up there. I can feel it. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to dislodge him from there.

My tears mix with the shower. He pulled my hair, forcing my head with it. I've scrubbed my hair until I ran out of shampoo, but I can't free his fingers from it. They're still there. His fingers are still tangled in my hair. I can feel his fist, my scalp burning. I still see the counter crashing into me. The shampoo stings my brow. Must be another cut I missed.

I collapse, heaving dry. My insides wrench themselves trying to expel him, but I feel it solidifying in me. Right here, at the base of my throat, I feel a stone growing. I can't swallow anymore. Not from the choking, not from the bruising, not from the burn of throwing up. All I can do is stand back up and let the icy water fill my mouth.

My hair still feels him tugging it. My breasts still feel his hands and teeth mauling them. And my vagina, God, it's still bleeding, turning the water some happy-looking pink. Makes sense, in a way -- all that's happy, down the drain. I hug myself and shudder. No, not from the cold.

It doesn't work. Even my hug, I feel his hands on my arms, not mine. I stumble out of the shower, leaving the water still running. My wet hair slaps my shoulder blades. The water was cold, the air is colder. I grab for a towel, find none. I look at my clothes, ripped and dirty. No choice. I drape what's left of my blouse over me like a shawl. I fumble with the top button, the one I never use. The only one left. I look at the mirror. I don't recognize her. Me.

It's my hair. It had life before this, too. Now it's just flat, like I was. My hair is-- No. That's not my hair anymore. His hands are still pulling it. I still feel my scalp about to tear off. It stills feels like it's on fire. My hands reach for the scissors.

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My hand runs over my fuzzy scalp. My hand. Not his. Mine. I've gotten rid of him -- from my hair, at least. I can still feel his hands; I can still smell his breath. Worst of all, I can still feel his teeth.

I look at the pair of scissors in my hand. So bright, so clean. So cleansing. I look at my breasts, my nipples dark, but not darker than his teeth marks...