Drops of icy water roll down his hair, his body, the soap stings the abrasions, but it's a good sting, no, he makes it sting on purpose. Rubs again and again until his skin is red under the washcloth, until the rough surface scratches his forearms, until his palm marks are gone. It's too late now, the bruises blossoming into clear prints on his pale skin.

The phrase ‘I told you so’ flashes through his mind — he knew this would eventually happen, didn't he? One hundred percent did. He knew what would happen if he went up the stairs and he knew how shit this evening would turn out to be, but he went anyway. For what reason God only knew, though Andrew had never believed in him either. This wasn't a childish ‘what if’ hope, this was...what?

Truly disgusting feeling washes over him — like he'd been doused in waste and he couldn't wash it off, no matter how hard he rubbed or how much time and shower gel he used up. Thirty minutes he'd been standing here, fifteen of which had been spent staring at the wall, and another ten spent standing motionless under jets of water, hoping it would help. He knew better, it never did. That level of filth couldn't be washed away with water — oh no, that sticky feeling would go underground with him.

He stops the water — his hands are shaking unabashedly, whether it's because of the icy water or because he's just been dragged through a nightmare he's been having for the past few years, it doesn't matter so much. It's actually funny. He's funny — all disheveled in the mirror, with bruises here and there, covered in soap. They're funny behind the door — looking at him with horror and regret and pity, and {{user}} is funny, peering out from behind the door. Pause, it's not funny anymore.

Andrew blinks a couple times — he looks weird right now, doesn't he? Standing in front of the mirror, water pouring off him, drenching the carpet, his shoulders shivering coarsely. It's nothing, he doesn't recognize himself either.