Note: So it's depressing. Shoot me.
Disclaimer: (n) dis·claim·er[dis-kley-mer] the act of disclaiming; the renouncing, repudiating, or denying of a claim; disavowal. Stick that in your schnitzel.
He climbs out of the bathtub, his skin gleaming with droplets of water and foamy soap suds. He winces as he sees his skin; angry, burnt, and red from the extreme heat he has just experienced. He blindly grabs a towel through the steam after his arm fumbles about for a shelf, and wraps it around his waist as he reaches for the door. Wrenching it open, he relishes the feeling of the stark cold air engulfing his body, and smiles vaguely. Holding his arm up to the light, he can see the swirls of heat drifting off and running through the air from the sheer heat of the water. His line of vision clears along with his head, and he is about to exit the makeshift sauna when he catches sight of himself in the mirror and stops just short of the threshold. With a manic, unbecoming nature, he bolts to the metal hanging a little askew on his wall. Through the trailing streaks of condensation, he can see his face. And he realises that no amount of hot baths can change it. His eyes are as red and puffy as ever, bloodshot, painful. His hair is as wild and unkempt as it always is, out of place, messy. His heart is as screwed up as it has been since the start of the summer, shattered, torn. He has only been like this since... never. He has never been this scared, this marked, this haunted, in all his life. He runs situations through in his mind, over and over and over again, until he's curled up into a pain-filled ball, falling through infinity yet always staying on the mercilessly hard floor. And it hurts him, sends a stab of pain shooting down his entire body, when a tear falls at the same speed as the dripping water on the mirror, and he realises how shattered he is. He's so very tired, so very very tired. He places a hand against the ice cool metal, another tear falling, and he only blinks as a memory of days long-since-lost flashes before his eyes.
Because she's gone. Dead. As cold as the metal beneath his palm.
And as he crawls to bed a little later that night, clutching a pillow to his chest as if it's her small form, he regrets his choices.
Every. Last. One.