Flash fiction/speculative fiction

There’s Something Scary In The Bathroom

What is it?

I’m afraid to go in again.

I take a sedative and wait for it to kick in. When I feel a wave of dizziness rush over me, I enter the bathroom.

It’s big and well-lit. The light dances across the clean white tiles that cover the floor, walls, and ceiling. Mark wanted these tiles. White calms him. I thought it calmed me, too, but now I feel like wading through heaps of snow.

I can see every corner. Every nook. Every crevice.

Here’s the porcelain oval sink. Nothing is alarming inside. Not even a suspicious drop of water. Mark always mops the sink after using it. He’s obsessed with these things.

There’s nothing under the sink, too.

The sliding glass doors leading to the shower cabin are as transparent as the sea on that wild Greek island Mark took me to five years ago. Our last holiday. He doesn’t take me anywhere anymore.

There’s nothing behind the glass doors. The cabin is empty; the tall, rectangular shower head waiting patiently to be of service again.

I turn around. With a trembling hand, I open the toilet lid. If my head hadn’t been dizzy from the medication, I’d have stayed frozen like a statue in the middle of the bathroom, but now I can move. I can move my limbs. I withdraw my hand and peek into the white insides of the toilet. The small opening at the bottom, full of sparkling water, looks like the open mouth of a poisonous snake, full of saliva.

I leave the lid open, just in case.

I reach for the only brown thing in this prairie of whiteness: the bathroom cabinet. My shaking fingers grasp the wooden handles, and my eyes push their way into the bathroom’s treasure trove.

Face moistures. Anti-aging serums. Perfume bottles. Shampoos. Soaps. Scrubbing liquids. Nail clippers and nail files. Mark’s electric shaver. My epilator.

A few neatly arranged boxes of aspirin and other painkillers. Products for topical pain relief: creams, gels, and rubs.

A heap of nicely folded white towels.

Nothing weird about the cabinet.

I move away from it, leaving the doors open.

The medication has already transported my mind to other galaxies, but I’m still scared.

There’s nothing unusual in the bathroom, but I’m actually freaking out.

Shaking like a leaf, I turn to face the large mirror on the opposite wall, and a loud scream escapes my lips.

I see it.

It’s there, in front of me.

I manage to forget it every time I finish showering and leave the bathroom, but its picture lingers in my subconsciousness and forces me to take a sedative before entering the bathroom the following time without knowing why. But now I see it.

It twists its obnoxious face and grins at me.

It stares at me.

My fifty-year-old reflection.

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Thank you!