Past the Portrait, Down the Hall

Moving is an endeavor in your current, battered state. You can attempt to climb the stairs if absolutely necessary. With a slight limp, you pass the picture of the owners and begin checking doors in the hall. Your first choice is a linen closet full of thick, dry towels. You grab one and start dabbing away at your drenched skin. after a few passes, the previously pristine towel was tinged brown by the muddy water, and your skin was a bit pink from the scrubbing, but you are finally dry from head to toe. Wiping down your body made you aware of how many cuts and bruises you had accumulated during that tumble, but as luck would have it, conveniently next to the linen closet is a bathroom. You begin drawing a bath, letting the large basin fill as you search for something to treat your deepest wounds before infection can set in. There's hand soap and toothpaste, but the bathroom is mostly empty. You presume it's a guest bathroom that's barely stocked, though opening the medicine cabinet yields some success. You find a small first aid kit, certain to have the supplies you need. You promise to recompensate the cabin owners before you see that there's really not much to use. It lacks things as simple as Band-Aids or **** wipes, containing only small, pink tubes of topical cream. 'Bimbosporin' is written in glittery font which would look more appropriate in a makeup kit. The product claims to heal any damaged skin, leaving it blemish free. You take a tube and dispense a dollop of cream on the tip of your extended finger, then apply the cream to the cuts and scrapes on your face. You feel instant relief as the cool solution is absorbed into your skin. Satisfied that the product would do its job, you continue mending the rest of your wounds. Normally you'd feel safer covering the glossy patches of raw flesh with a bandage, but the cream advertised itself as not needing it.

Your bath is ready for you with inviting steam to forecast the comforting warmth. You dip your foot into the tub and slide appreciatively into the enveloping heat. Your worn, aching muscles relax immediately, and you close your eyes in bliss. It's like a professional, full-body massage, and you don't notice the time passing as you soak. You also don't notice the liberal amount of Bimbosporin you applied leeching into the bath water. Your entire body is exposed to the chemicals of the cream, leaving it smooth and soft along with your injuries being completely invisible. You finally snap from your enjoyment when your drowsy head momentarily slips beneath the surface of the water and wakes you back up.

Satisfied with your cleanliness and free of your pain, you drain the bath and towel off once more. You are happy to not see any residual marks from your injuries. In fact, you think your skin looks great, like you've been at the beach for a week instead of in the forest. Your wrap your towel around your waist and set your sights on a bed. You could take the couch, but you are already helping yourself to the amenities of the cabin. Might as well enjoy a mattress and pillows, which you assume are great if these towels were any indication. The next few doors you check lead to more closets, but at the end of the hall is a small bedroom, too small to be the master bedroom. It must be for guests, like the bathroom is. It hardly matters to you, barely able to keep your eyes open, and you drop the damp towel to crawl under the plush duvet. Sleep comes quickly and you snore through the rest of the torrential storm.