THe bath

Maria Filończyk

My brother’s stiff body looks like an abandoned doll on the cream tiles of our bathroom. His fingers are twisted in a root-like nature, making them appear almost botanical. If it wasn’t for the pulsating warm pinkish stains on his back, one could think it was a carcass. I kneel next to him, trying to pick up his head first, but I’m met with resistance and heavy sighs.

Leave me alone.

I submerge my hand in the bathtub to check the temperature of the water. The foam is already gone. And the water is cold.

The water is cold, I say as I sprinkle a bit on his face.

He doesn’t move or let me move him. I turn the hot water faucet and leave the bathroom to get his navy pyjamas. As soon as I step out, I can hear him hitting the tiles with his fist. I run back, he stops. As he always does. The floor takes in his warmth, and the steam from the hot water creates microscopic drops on the mirror. I go to open the window, but the sharp breeze of cold air hitting my face reminds me that my brother’s hair is moist with sweat. He can’t catch a cold. The water stops running while I attempt to move him again. This time he gives in to my gentle touch and slowly gets into the bathtub.

How old are you?, he asks.

We’re twenty, love, I respond