I found the bathroom tucked in the corner, a rusted sign hanging crookedly above the door. I pushed inside, the door creaking on its hinges as I stepped into the small, grimy space.
First thing I did?
I went to the sink and twisted the tap.
Nothing.
A hollow, dry croak escaped the pipes, but no water came out.
"Fuck."
I pressed my hands against the edge of the sink, my reflection staring back at me from the cracked, dirt-streaked mirror.
God, I looked awful.
Dark circles clung beneath my eyes, my face pale and gaunt from weeks of barely eating. My lips were chapped, the corner of my mouth split. My hair—once neatly tied back—was a tangled mess of knots, streaked with dirt, sweat, and dried blood.
I lifted a hand to my face, running my fingers over my cheekbone. My skin felt rough, gritty.
I felt disgusting.
