my housecoat and slippers.
The house was silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator. I approached the bathroom door on tiptoe, heart hammering. I knelt slowly and pressed my eye against the old-fashioned keyhole.
What I saw shattered me.
Richard sat shirtless on a wooden stool in front of the sink, his back completely exposed under the harsh fluorescent light. His skin — dear God, his skin — looked like it had been through hell. From his shoulders down to his waist, it was a landscape of thick, raised scars, angry red patches, and shiny, discolored tissue. Some areas looked like melted wax. Others had deep craters and keloid scars that twisted across his spine. His shoulders were hunched as he carefully applied thick ointment from several tubes, massaging it into the damaged skin with slow, painful movements. His face, reflected in the mirror, was tight with pain.
He was whispering something under his breath.
