The shower was running when someone came knocking at my door the morning after the gunshot.
I had been standing under the water for maybe ten minutes, letting the heat work through my shoulders and down my back. The steam had built up enough to fog the mirror and soften the edges of the room. The sound of the water was constant, steady, the kind of white noise that made everything else fade into the background. I wasn't thinking about much. Just the temperature and the pressure and the fact that I was clean.
Then the sound came.
It was loud. Wood splintering. Something heavy hitting the floor. The crash echoed through the bedroom and into the bathroom, cutting through the sound of the water like it had never been there at all.
I stopped moving. My hand was still raised, water running over my wrist and down my arm. I stood there for a second, processing the sound, placing it.
I couldn't.
Letting out a long sigh, pissed that my shower had been cut short, I turned off the water.
