She twists the knob again. The stream of water turns into a blast, raising the surface level to drown her ankles. She sits against the porcelain and rests her head on the lip of the tub, feeling the distant pleasure of warmth as the water engulfs her—its barely perceptible pulse of heat makes her ache for more. As the water rises, the pressure grows. It weighs down on her, a soothing presence across her body like a heavy blanket keeping her grounded. Her fingertips travel to the hem of her dress, hesitate, then float away.

The water rises to her armpits. She uses her feet to twist the knob and the faucet stops its purging. The only noise now is the gurgle of bathwater sloshing around as she adjusts herself into comfort.

The pipes creak. She closes her eyes and listens but does not hear footsteps or scratching. She looks back into the bathwater. It’s murky, darkened by brown sludge and thick blood, her legs hidden by the opacity. She rubs down her dress, squeezing out as much filth as she can from the fabric. But there’s more underneath, against her skin, hiding. She can feel it touching her, rolling across her stomach, crawling down her center.

She yanks the dress off over her head and submerges it, scrubbing it against herself as the water produces black waves of filth. She rubs and rubs and rubs, refusing to give up until every inch is clean. Until even the individual stitches are free of filth. When satisfied, she lets go of the dress with a triumphant “Humph!” It lazily floats to the surface like a bloated carcass, releasing trapped bubbles of air with an ugly hiss.

She rubs down her arms and legs, her skin now an unnatural shade of bright red. Against the darkness of the water, her body looks ragingly violent. About to erupt. Alarmed, she scrubs harder and harder, but the red won’t go away. It only grows brighter, angrier.

She quickly steps out of the tub. Steam rises from her body in thick clouds. Her skin splits into blisters, sprouting across her arms and legs until they open in violent bursts, vomit water, and disappear. She leans into the mirror, watching as a bubble expands across her shoulder, pops with wet revulsion, leaving shreds of skin in its wake, and absorbs back into her, petals of pink shrinking away.

The reaction carries on with indignation until it slows, bubbles taking longer to form and shorter to heal. She grabs the towel off the sink and wraps it tightly around her ribcage, knotting the corners in front of her chest, exfoliating what’s left of the blisters. Steam no longer rises from her skin, now perfectly tamed, the color and texture having returned to normal. The distant pulsation of heat vanishes to nothing.

Nothing.

“Do you think I need fixing?”

Never, Daddy.

The water in the tub is dark red. Loose hairs and flakes of dirt whirl within. She fishes her dress out, a cascade of brown falling from the fabric, and twists it at both ends delicately. Once the last possible drop is mangled from the fabric, the dress still feels wet and heavy.