The Detour by S. A. Bodeen

leggings had dried stiff. The sweet, cloying scent of pee hit my nostrils. Half my hair was out of my braids; some strands clumped together with spaghetti sauce hung in front of my eyes. My bare feet were filthy. So many places on my body hurt that I couldn’t even differentiate them all.
    My stomach growled, reminding me to add starving to the list of things that currently sucked.
    The covers were messed up a little, but they were there. As were the pillows. So my one luxury, the nice-smelling bedding, remained. Still mine. I wanted to lie down and sleep, sleep forever. But if I did that, the covers would be ruined. Because I was filthy.
    And pissed off. At them, for doing that to me.
    But also at myself.
    If I had been quicker and struck her instead of hesitating so long, I might have been free. I’d broken my own rule. I’d wasted my only chance of escape early on, the same as all those idiots in horror movies. I had become one of them. A victim. Too weak to hurt her captor when given the opportunity.
    â€œNo.” I shook my head. No wallowing. That wasn’t who I was. Not anymore.
    I shuffled to the bathroom, switched on the light, and shut the door. I stepped in front of the sink but didn’t look in the mirror. The thought of seeing myself a victim again would put me up against the edge—an edge I didn’t dare get any closer to if I had any hope of keeping my wits and getting out alive.
    I turned on the cold water, stuck my head under the tap, and drank. Cupping my right hand, I splashed my face. I sucked in a breath. The cold water on all the little cuts stung at first, but then numbed them a bit. I pushed down my underwear and leggings, until they bunched around my ankles, and stepped out of them. I plucked them up with my forefinger and thumb, and then dumped them in the sink.
    I turned the other knob and waited until the water ran hot, then pumped several squirts of the lime coconut hand soap into it. The suds grew.
    When the sink was nearly full, I turned off the tap and pushed my right hand into the water, which was plenty hot but not scalding. In fact, the warmth seeped into my skin and deeper, comforting me. I started to knead my clothes. Scrubbing with one hand didn’t work very well, but I did what I could. The pleasant aroma of lime and coconut brought my senses into focus. I let the clothes soak and turned to open the small cupboard. Pink hand towels and washcloths with orange polka dots lay in tidy stacks. I yanked out a washcloth, stuck it under the tap, and pumped some soap onto it. I washed my lower half, hoping the hand soap—clearly not meant for more sensitive areas—wouldn’t give me a rash.
    I scrubbed and scrubbed, like I was washing off not only the pee and the dirt from the past two days, but also the memories of those awful years.
    I used a towel to dry myself.
    I slowly wriggled my sweater off my bad shoulder and dropped it on the floor. I rinsed the washcloth and then ran it under my arms and over my face, and then stopped to look in the mirror. My loose hair stuck up and out, like I’d had a fright and my hair was still reacting. My face was clean at last, but there were abrasions on the right side. On the left, a red scratch ran from my temple to my jaw. Where she’d broken the skin was a streak of dried blood I’d missed.
    I unwound the elastics on the ends of my braids and set them on the edge of the sink, then took out what was left of my braids and finger combed my hair. I hit a snag and winced. But there was no comfort in that. Not like there had been earlier.
    I growled and smacked the mirror with my palm. Again. Again and again, until my hand stung. They had driven me back to the hair pulling. I hated them for doing that to me. Pushing me that far.
    I took a deep breath. That wouldn’t happen again. I wouldn’t let them.
    After a few minutes and a couple more snags, my hair was finally smooth and free of snarls. It was