Short Story

So i wanted to work on my descriptive writing and I am author ADD so I tend to write in short stories. This one is sort of depressing but I think it gives a very clear picture of the protagonist. :) Stay wonderful!

~Singing Ginger

“Shower” Short Story

She sat in the small closet that passed for a dorm room shower, letting the water pour over her body. She watched as it trickled down her neck and flowed over her bare breasts, it rained down her legs and flowed off of her toes down into the drain. She realized that even though her body remained perfectly intact something was hurt more than any broken bone. His rejection had led to her to a far worse place than any hospital bed or medical table, she was alone now. It hurt, fuck it hurt. A life time of warring between the school counselors saying she could be a strong woman all on her own, and the magazines that said her worth could only truly be recognized if she was in a relationship had finally ended in one painful conclusion. She wouldn’t die if she was alone but she would be left hurt and broken. How could she do this? How had any woman ever done this? It hurt like it would never stop, it hurt like the pain would just keep rolling over her like the water from the faucet head. She pulled her knees into her body and inspected herself. Her boobs where a full C cup on a smaller D cup body. Her belly undulated twice before dipping down into a full head of curly red hair. Her thighs were dotted with the occasional in grown follicle and amassed the majority of her weight. They evened out into what she considered her wonderfully proportioned calves that had managed to stay tight even after the softball that had sculpted them that way had ended. Her feet lacked an arch, which took away some of the gracefulness normally afforded to that part of the body. Overall she was a slightly fitter than typical big girl. She would not catch glances on the street, she would not be approached at bars. Her beauty would only be recognized through her personality, her personality would be stifled by the rejection of her body type in what society defined as “pretty” which again left her here, in the shower, alone. Why would anyone risk this? What drove her to put herself out there when it could end in this? Was it the hope that at some point she would either find the person who wouldn’t land her in the shower or was it that at some point she would give up and no longer care? That a shower would go back to just being a shower and not a place to hide her tears. As her own faucets opened up to their fullest and the goblets snaked down the landscape of her face to mix with the rivers flowing over her body she wished for it all to end in some other land but the lonely. She wished there was a pill she could take to make it stop, to make the gut wrenching feeling twisting her insides together to untangle, to untwist, to let her go on living. To get her out of the freaking shower. As her eyes emptied the rest of their contents into the drain she stood herself up and once again. The unfortunate thing was that there was no cure, there was no pill and that unless she was otherwise taken to dying she would indeed keep on living. The second horrible conclusion she came to was that she was far from the first and far from the last person on earth to ever feel this way and that the only real thing she could do about it would be to wait until it went away. She turned the nozzle to cold and felt the change wash over her. She wiped her eyes (even though there was no real reason for that) and then turned the water off. She stepped out of the shower into a warm fuzzy towel, wrapped her head in a second towel and walked out of her bathroom and into her life once again.