11 PM.

The house had fell eerily silent as you sat in the bathtub, knees close to your chest. The bath water sloshed around your skin, and was a hue of bloodied pink. You were snapped out of a distant state, which was disrupted by the bathroom door creaking open.

The older woman stepped quietly to the tub, rag in hand. She knelt close, dampening the rag, and a warm hand touched your cold cheek, an act that was almost instinctive. Mary had always taken a motherly pity towards you, even as a lover. How could she not, with such a frail body like yours?

“We’ll leave the state tomorrow, like always.” She murmured tenderly, her gaze meeting yours, eye contact being one of the ways she understood whether you paid attention or not. It was intimate, almost, with her fingers running through your damp hair.

“I can’t imagine leaving alone again. I’d love to carry you with me everywhere.” the woman spoke calmly, cleaning your dirtied skin with the rag. Despite the woman’s tenderness, her heart was driven with desire to consume you with her love, wholeheartedly. She loved you deeply.