Let the Steam Take It

“You don’t get to choose what clings and what washes away. All you can do is stand there, burning, and hope the steam takes something with it.”

Luke's abrupt movement jerked me awake, tearing me from the fragile, uneasy slumber that had finally claimed me in the aftermath of our nightmarish ordeal. Disoriented, I blinked against the grainy blur of fatigue. My neck throbbed from the awkward angle at which I’d rested against him, a dull, persistent ache that paled in comparison to the horrors still echoing in my memory.

The room was silent, cloaked in that eerie hush that arrives just before dawn, as though the world itself was holding its breath. But something in Luke's face pulled me upright faster than my battered body was ready for. His eyes—wide, tense, alert—met mine with a glint of urgency that immediately set my nerves on edge. The quiet dread I’d managed to momentarily suppress flared back to life, coiling through my chest like smoke.

"You said this creature followed you from Clivilius?" he asked, his voice low and grave, every syllable etched with alarm.

"Yes," I murmured, the word catching in my throat. Just saying it aloud made it all too real. The conclusion that had gnawed at the back of my mind for hours now stood front and centre, undeniable and chilling: the Portal was no longer just a doorway for us.

The thought crashed over me like a wave—if the beast had followed me here, what was to stop it from invading anywhere? From targeting anyone?

"Fuck!" Luke's exclamation shattered the quiet, his voice raw with sudden clarity and fury. His reaction was instant, a blur of motion as he sprang to his feet with a singular focus that left no time for hesitation. In one swift motion, he activated the Portal. The device responded with a violent burst of technicolour light, casting long, flickering shadows across the room.

"Luke—" I tried, but the word barely left my lips before he was already gone, swallowed by the swirling light.

And just like that, I was alone again.

For a moment, I contemplated following him—chasing that blur of purpose into the swirling lights of the Portal, if only to avoid being alone with the echoes of everything I’d endured. But the sight of my own reflection in the pantry door froze me in place. The sheen bore a ghostly version of myself—eyes wide and shadowed, skin bloodied and bruised, lips pale and pressed into a line of exhausted resolve. I hardly recognised her.

Instead, I turned away and drifted to the nearest window, careful not to disturb the quiet. With slow, measured movements, I peered out, my eyes scouring the shadows for any hint of that black, monstrous silhouette. My breath caught as I waited… but there was nothing. Just the still yard and the gentle sway of trees in the early morning breeze. The beast had vanished—for now.

A wave of fragile relief rolled over me, loosening my muscles enough to breathe properly again. The house, though still heavy with tension, had taken on a hush that no longer felt ominous. Just still. Still and silent.

Allowing myself the smallest, most fleeting moment of gratitude, I gathered a towel from the linen cupboard and made my way to the bathroom. The warmth from the overhead lights wrapped around me like a comforting cloak, soothing the icy sting that clung to my skin. Yet as I caught sight of myself in the mirror, the illusion of comfort shattered. My body was a canvas of the night’s brutality—bruises blooming across my ribs, a gash across my arm now crusted with blood, dirt smudged along my legs and feet. Each mark told a story I hadn’t yet had the strength to tell.

I turned the lock on the bathroom door with a trembling hand, needing at least one space that felt entirely mine—sealed and safe. The familiar hiss of the shower as it sputtered to life brought a sliver of normality, the white noise cocooning me from thought.

Steam began to rise, fogging the mirror and softening the sharp edges of reality. I reached behind me, and the tattered red dress slid from my shoulders with a whisper, pooling around my feet like spilled blood. I stared at it for a beat too long, the fabric now ruined, symbolic of everything I had endured.

Letting it fall wasn’t just necessity—it was release. A quiet act of resistance. Of survival.

As I stepped into the stream of hot water, the sting on my wounds was immediate and sharp, but I welcomed it. It was real. It reminded me that I was still here. Still alive.