The Bath Hour

It was the moment I looked forward to the most after an exhausting, endless day of work. In the mornings I never have time for myself, so showering is impossible. When I finish my university assignments after my part-time shift, tired from walking back and forth, my head full of unfinished tasks, my bath hour finally arrives: my only moment to relax.

I grab my clean clothes, my towel, and the container with shampoo, conditioner, and soap. I climb the stairs of the building where I live and step out onto the terrace; the bathroom is in the farthest corner.

The cold wind prickles my skin, so I hurry toward it.

I open the door and flip the switch. The light flickers for a few seconds. I think I should replace the bulb, but I'm too tired to go back downstairs. I walk toward the shower.

I turn the knob: the water comes out freezing. I try to remember if the gas tank was running low. I decide to shower anyway; I can't stand being dirty one more day.

I wet only my hair, avoiding the icy water on my back, and apply shampoo. As I massage quickly, the product runs down my forehead and into my eyes. The burning is unbearable. I try to rinse it off, but when I open my eyes, I can't see anything.

Did the light go out?

I pull the shower curtain aside and reach out for my towel, but I can't make out even my own silhouette.

Suddenly, the light flickers back on. In the corner of the bathroom, a tall, dense, shadow with a feminine shape seems to be watching me. I try to scream, but no sound comes out.

The light goes out again. Total darkness.

A few seconds later, it turns on once more.

The shadow is gone.