The other night dear, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke dear, I was mistaken.
I just hung my head and I cried...
She got out of the shower, the steamy water on her muscles relaxed her. Her wet hair hung over her shoulders as she stood air drying on the cool tile floor. She liked the refreshing contrast as her skin cooled and the water evaporated. The mirror in the bathroom was fogged up. She stepped into the bedroom, the carpet so soft under her feet. By the glow of the bathroom light she found matches and lit some candles. Eric liked these candles she thought; he would never admit it though. She used them on special occasions like his birthday. She would light them for him tonight; perhaps leave one in the window so he could find his way back to her.
She stood in front of the mirror shedding towels. The candles left a nice rose scent in the air and the flickering light they made danced with shadows. This light was kind to her in ways people were no longer. She draws stares with her scars the way her tattoos once turned heads. Strangers knowing something happened but not wanting to ask what.
She felt the bumps on her chin where her jaw hit; nineteen stitches. Her milky blue eye always waters but this time it was a tear. She has an easy out that way; she could say 'since the accident it always does that' and not be lying. She felt the jagged seam on her arm where the pins are, it pains her if the weather is cold. Her abdomen pocked with scars from the glass; they pulled so many pieces out of her torso it must have been half the windshield.
She stood in front of the mirror taking an inventory. Counting what she had still and what she lost. She ran her fingers over her chest and arms tracing her tattoos, warped and misshapen from where they had to stretch and tuck the skin grafts. She spent so much time in the chair having them done. Now they look like a patch quilt, the sewing circle ran out of one pattern, so they swapped in another. The candles and shadows continued their dance, hiding these patches but Lauren knew her body too well now. She had explored it as she healed, taking stock of herself. She stood in front of the mirror crying.
She dropped the pile of damp towels in the hamper and spread out on the bed. Her sandy blonde hair fanned out across the pillow. It was tangled and wet and beautifully messy. She ran her hand through it and felt the cool moisture between her fingers.
My hair, she thought, my hair is still fucking glorious! Other women would kill for this thick, perfect hair.
