It was a small cellar of sorts, a narrow passage divided in two by an oversized plastic shower curtain. The white reminded her of the hospital. She removed her clothes piece by piece, standing at last, slightly arched from the day spent huddled under florescent lights, her mind like a mitt ready to catch. She had found she enjoyed her compulsive studies above all other escapes, alcohol alike.  The dwindling of her sex drive was obvious; she spent her time sleeping when she used to crave the pleasure, the tickle of sex. She looked down at her body without opinion and rubbed the small of her back, pressing against the pain of early aging. She turned the knob in the shower to hear the sound of water, crisp as it hit the bottom. Hidden in her bag she found the instrument of the demons, used to weld a shrine to the evils in the world right there on her body.

She took off her shower shoes. She had never before felt the pit that drained the dirty water from her. All the diseases that crept there would catch instantly to their first host and she would close her eyes to feel the alternating pressures press against the thick skin on the bottom of her feet, and she would know for the first time what it felt like to catch a disease. She had to turn her face when she washed her arm, the smell of rusting metal made her sick with contempt. Would she grow old, she wondered. The constant stream of steaming water had numbed the back of her neck, and she had found how it felt when the dirt is too thick to wash off.