Another Place, Another Time.

The silence stretched too long,long enough for your pulse to hammer against your ribs. Then, the creak of retreating footsteps. You exhaled, opened your eyes. The tiles beneath your feet weren’t the same off-white from before; they were cracked, moss-green, the grout black with mildew.

Looking up, the showerhead wasn’t chrome anymore,it was rusted iron, spewing water in uneven spurts. The lavender scent had curdled into something damp, earthy, like wet soil and rotting leaves.

Your fingers trembled as you shut off the water, the sudden silence pressing against your eardrums. Steam clung to your skin as you stepped onto the cracked tiles, the chill of the bathroom air raising goosebumps across your flesh. The mirror was fogged, a distorted smear of silver reflecting only shadows, until you wiped your palm across the glass.

Your breath caught. You were still her, but your hair was longer, and died red. You recognised it, you'd seen pics of her like this, it was after she'd been with Steve. Your stomach dropped, you knew this was from a very dark time in her life. She'd told you, in confidence, that she had a pretty bad **** addiction at this time, and that she'd been taken advantage of due to it. But wouldn't go into detail.

You gulped, you were sure you were about to find out.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the clothes piled on the cardboard box beside the sink, a crumpled band t-shirt, frayed at the hem, and a pair of black leggings with a hole near the knee. The fabric smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap detergent as you pulled them on, the shirt sticking to your damp skin. The waistband of the leggings dug into your hips, too tight, like they weren’t yours.

A muffled thump came from beyond the door, someone kicking something, maybe a wall, maybe a laundry basket. "You better come in here quick if you want your dust" an unfamilar voice snarled, voice thick with irritation.

The rusted hinges groaned as you cracked the door open, the scent of stale weed hitting you like a wall. A tall Black man slouched against the opposite wall, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as they raked over you. His locs were greasy, tied back with a frayed hairband, and his oversized hoodie hung off one shoulder, revealing track marks along his collarbone.

"Took you long enough," he muttered, flicking ashes from a crumpled cigarette onto the peeling linoleum. His fingers twitched toward his pocket, and you caught the glint of a small plastic baggie before he tucked it back out of sight.

His fingers drummed against his thigh, the plastic baggie crinkling faintly as he shifted his weight. "You know what you gotta do if you want it," he said, voice low and rough like gravel under tires. His eyes flicked toward the dim hallway behind him,a silent warning that time was running out.

Your throat tightened. The carpet beneath your bare feet was sticky, the air thick with sweat and something chemical, sharp. You could taste it on your tongue, metallic and sour. His smirk widened when you hesitated, revealing a chipped front tooth.

"Tick-tock," he muttered, tapping his wrist where a watch should’ve been. "Dick ain't gonna suck it's self."

Your fingers twitched at your sides. A feeling of horror filled you.