The Alignment by Kay Camden Page B

behind me, sealing the sounds of nature outside. He’s standing in the silence, in the same position I left him, his back against the sink with his hands gripping the counter and his head bowed. I can tell he’s grinding his teeth again.
    His eyes rise and center on my unbandaged leg.
    “I’m airing it out,” I mutter, making my way in front of him into the other room before my stomach has a chance to protest. I wander into the only bedroom and find a bed stripped of its sheets crowding the whole room. A small dresser is crammed next to it, my bags perched on top. The floor is bare, but the window has a heavy curtain. The room hardly looks lived in.
    I press my nose to the mattress and notice no discernible smell, so I lift it to view the underside. Nothing hiding under there either. Although it doesn’t remove my disgust—I have to sleep in his bed. Fortunately, the mattress itself doesn’t nauseate me. So far at least. I hope he doesn’t mind the couch, but do I care if he does? He should be sleeping on a bed of nails for the grief he’s given me.
    I unpack my things, filling the two bottom empty dresser drawers and unloading my bath items on top of the dresser. I stare at my handiwork, wondering when I’ll be able to go home, wondering why I’m complying with any of this madness in the first place. Suddenly I’m aware of every sore muscle in my body. I’d kill for a hot bath.
    The bathroom is the next door down the hall. It’s barely big enough to turn around in. There is a tub, but not one I’m getting into. I find some bathroom cleaner under the sink and spray the entire tub including the tile walls. I also spray the sink and the outside of the toilet. I grab a rag from under the sink and go to work. Having a task to occupy my hands offers an excuse to not think about what I’m trying not to think about.
    Once finished, I spray the entire floor and scrub it on my hands and knees. Everything sparkles like a TV commercial for bathroom cleaner. I wish I had worn gloves. Too bad they’d never protect me from contracting his toxic disposition. That’s what I seem to be trying to scrub out.
    Back in the bedroom, I pick out some clean clothes and gather my bath stuff. I hesitate in the doorway, unsure of proper etiquette between captor and hostage. But he did say to make myself at home. I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, so I shuffle within hearing range. It doesn’t take much in this tiny house, so sparsely furnished there’s little to absorb the sound.
    “Is it okay if I take a bath?” My voice cracks.
    No answer. The floor creaks, and he appears in the doorway throwing a bath towel at me. It lands on my shoulder but I grab it before it hits the floor. It’s still warm from the dryer.
    I return to the bathroom and close the door. I stare at the doorknob. No lock. This can’t get any better. I stuff the wet rag I used to clean under the door, hoping it will act as some kind of obstacle. The tub faucet squeaks loudly as I turn it on. I undress, throwing my clothes against the door as well. I let my hair down and study the person in the mirror, a face too pale and eyes too bright. It’s the look pasted on faces of family members of the trauma victims I treat at work. I try to relax my face. What is wrong with me? I’m in a strange man’s house, preparing to take a bath in his tub after scrubbing his entire bathroom without asking. I must be in shock.
    An electric jolt rips through my body as a knock sounds on the door. I press my palm against the crack of the door, holding it closed. “What?!”
    “Something out here to soak your leg.”
    I hold the door until my breathing returns to normal. I turn off the tub faucet and listen. There’s no way to know if he’s still out there. I wrap a towel around me, shove the pile of clothes aside with my foot, and crack the door. Seeing no immediate threat, I open it some more and find a shallow tray filled with a dark liquid on the floor. I grab the