After the Client Leaves

The door clicks shut.

She doesn’t move.

She waits, listening — just to be sure he’s really gone. His cologne still lingers in the air like poison. Her skin feels raw, rubbed down to the bone. Her thighs ache, her ribs sting, and her lips taste like nothing.

A numb kind of nothing.

Amelia pulls the sheets over her bare legs. They’re stained. Wrinkled. She stares at the mess between them like it belongs to someone else.

Then she slides off the bed.

Quiet. Robotic.

She stumbles to the small bathroom. There’s no window. Just cracked white tiles, yellowing with age. The sink drips. Drip. Drip. Drip. She turns the knob — the water screams, rusty at first, then cold.

She doesn’t care.

She steps under the faucet, still wearing the lace that man liked. She scrubs. Hard. Her hands move like they’re trying to erase something under her skin. Her neck. Her chest. Her thighs. Again. Again. Again.

The lace clings to her, wet and useless.

Then—

She drops. Right there on the tile floor, knees hitting hard, elbows trembling. She bites her hand to keep from screaming. Tears flood her eyes, then spill freely, soundlessly. Her body shakes. Her lip quivers. The sobs come in waves, but she never lets them escape her throat.

Because no one can hear.

Because crying here — in this place — means weakness. And weakness means they’ll come again.

So she cries into her own hands like they’re her only shelter.

“Why me?” she whispers. Over and over.

“Why me?”

No answer comes. Only the drip from the sink. The silence of a room that has seen too much. The coldness of her own heart trying to survive itself.

And when she’s finally empty — When the tears run out — She crawls back to the bed.

Not to sleep. Not to dream.

Just to exist.

Just to wait for the next knock on the door.