“It's that little souvenir, of a terrible year, which makes my eyes feel sore.”

I am so suggestable, singing The Sundays, on a Sunday, and feeling that soreness in my eyes because, as usual, they picked up my daughter, and took her away for another week.

“Here’s where…” I run the water over my face to ease the sting, then spit the water away from my mouth. “…the story ends.”

There’s blood in the shower tray again. I must remember to rinse it down after. The poor, dilapidated thing could do with a scrub. Knowing I should put on gloves, and get going is one thing, but trying to perform the mental gymnastics just to start that damned process is exhausting.

The black mold is back. The closet sized room doesn’t have enough ventilation to keep it at bay for long, and my landlord has found fifteen different ways to avoid paying for it to be painted with decent, water-resistant paint. Its current coat is desiccating; cracked and peeling away from the wall, dry, yet dripping with sweat.

The cabinet needs replacing. Its hinges creak and wobble, threatening to drop the mirrored door. Excess water has scratched and marred the mirror, de-silvering it with dull marks that sketch a grim scene of wirey brambles overgrowing a sharp, iron, graveyard fence. A sketch of a man folds his arms and forever throws his head back laughing at me, wide mouthed.

The old shower tray had rotten away the supporting plywood until a big man like me should have fallen through to the dog groomers below. When I step near the new shower, the floorboards and plastic façade sinks down when I step near it. The replacement tray was smaller but never filled the gap.

I often wonder if I could slip through the crack and die in the floorboards. My flight of fancy never lasts long, before I remember my allergy to the dander of dogs, and as much as I would enjoy the puppy watching portion of my haunt, I would be put off by the irritation of rats scratching and gnawing at my bones. What a terrible racket.

I turn off the water.

The clutter of broken things gathering in the corner needs to be cleared away, and the sealant around the tray redone; sealant was never applied around the shower dial. A steady heartbeat of water still falls from the dial down to the shower tray for a time, after. The beat slows.

Reaching down to the floor reveals an odour, infecting the plush shower mat that covers the gap. I stroke the tousled ends to ease the mat, but feel the grime of the room seeping into me. I pat the carpet down and move to leave, instead I retreat to the shower. Three frantic attempts to close the stubborn door.

Turning the temperature to max and nozzle to high pressure, I wait for the comforting knife-jabs of heat that follow.

“Ohhh, here’s where, the story ends.”