Thoughts, comments, edits all welcome
Stepping into the small shower stall, she hurriedly turns the knob and relishes the sensation of hot water caressing her face, her body. She exfoliates vigorously, as though the guilt could flake off like dead skin. The suds slide down the small, round grate and out of sight; she wills the memories to follow. She aches to simply forget, to pretend it never happened, but she accepts that these "solutions" have no power to change that which has already transpired. Steam fogs every surface in the bathroom, but she shivers involuntarily. She can still smell it, taste it, feel it. The vivid images she cannot black out, the wicked tingle of her skin, now raw from scrubbing, her disgust and self loathing. These are a disease, deteriorating her entire being from the inside out. She rakes her fingers through her hair and applies more soap. Rinse, repeat. She snatches her towel decisively. She has finished rinsing. There will be no repeat.