Unlike those who have a living, breathing being waiting for them at home to welcome them back, he retreats to the rectangular, porcelain haven after a long day at work.
After closing his apartment door, Shizuo kicks off the heavy shoes that have shielded his feet as they kicked random objects to far distances, from empty soda cans to bus bumpers. He unbuttons the vest that now has traces of strangers he hopes to never see again; he didn't understand how touching him would somehow make their debts disappear, but they seemed to like doing that. He flicks off the clip on bow-tie, possibly the easiest part of his ensemble. Every other piece required a specific touch from him to unfasten so he won't have to mend it afterwards, but one swift movement by his index finger saves him a lot of time and frustration.
He steps into the bathroom with just the white dress shirt and his black pants. In the subdued light, he sees the shirt isn't quite as white anymore. There's smudges of red and some grease spots, and it smells of sweat and nicotine. It doesn't bother him that it's stained, because he was used to dirtying his shirt every day; it bothers him that he doesn't know which stains are his and which aren't. It's a mystery that has haunted him since his pre-teen years, but it's something he never gets accustomed to.
He looks into the mirror; he looks tired, slightly on edge, but he feels rather indifferent and calm. He looks forward to this moment all day while he's dealing with those losers, as if he does it all just for this next half hour he's about to indulge in. He twists the shower all the way to a comfortable hot setting, and waits for the room to steam. He glances at the mirror one last time before his reflection is engulfed in vapor, and finally steps in.
He lets the water come over him as if it were an elixir, or a sacred fountain of youth. He closes his eyes and likes to imagine all of the impurities he collects throughout the day wash down to his feet and circle the drain. But he thinks about it all again; the first time he picked something up that was three times his weight, the first body he'd seen unconscious on the ground because of him, the horrified cries for help when he'd just be having a tantrum.
He picks up the bar of soap and tries to scrub away the feeling of the first broken bone. His fingers brush over a cluster of scars on his lower abdomen, and it triggers a flood within his chest. His entire is decorated with scars, and some come and go rather quickly while others are permanent on his skin; the ones that go away are usually the ones he accidentally inflicts on himself, but the ones that stay are the ones that others had given to him.
He hates being marked by somebody else. It's a reminder that someone had intention to hurt him when he had most likely done nothing to them but defend himself. He scrubs harder with the soap, using his nails to help, but the scars don't fade, and his skin is left with new pink welts.
While he can walk away from a knife fight unscathed, the words that chase him from the scene haunt him. Monster. Demon. Freak. For this, he grabs the shampoo, squeezes the bottle until it's nearly flat, and massages his scalp with the fragrant substance in an attempt to make those names disappear. It never works, but his head feels better, at least.
He was definitely one of those people who ponders his life in the bath, and he wonders if his strength will somehow subside when he gets older. Maybe his life will finally start to settle, and things will get quiet around the city, and he won't need to be so scared of meeting other people.
But he had been waiting for that day to come when he was a kid, and years later, it looks like it's still light years away. The solitude was still there, as was his strength, and he just couldn't have one without the other. For now, all he had most of the time was himself, the empty feeling within his heart, and this hot shower. And right now, he isn't sure if he had managed to get the shampoo in his eyes, or if he looked directly into the sprinkling shower head, but his eyes begin to tear up, and Shizuo takes it as a signal to let himself go. As strong as he is, nothing ever compares to the war waged inside of him, and the loneliness he faced with every waking moment. Right now, his shoulder to cry on was his damn bathroom, and the gentle hands wiping his tears away was the hot water.
Maybe one day I won't be so pathetic. Maybe.
But the time is now, and it's what works in the mean time.
When he finally twists the shower off and steps back out in front of the mirror, his eyes are rimmed with red and he looks much more tired than before because of it. He's not indifferent anymore, however; he feels much more relieved, and his body feels lighter from having the weight of his world washed away. It usually never ends in tears, but perhaps he'd been suppressing them for longer than he'd thought.
He never did like making anyone listen to him, anyways.