I walked into the house and immediately felt at home. The walls had long cracks from the ceiling to the floor, the wallpaper was awful, and the stairs were rotten, but I could see what it could be. Besides, I couldn’t exactly look a gift horse in the mouth. This was more than a step up for me, to say the least. Even if I could only call this place home for a few days, I would consider it a win. Running water? Hell yeah! An old, bare mattress on the floor? Yes, please! A few cans of barely expired albacore tuna? You bet. I’d be living like a queen compared to my recent dwellings.

I pushed the crooked front door closed. It creaked in protest, along with my fatigued muscles. A grey card table chair from a bygone era stood on the other side of the entryway. It caught my attention. I slid it across the warped, avocado-green linoleum floor and leaned it under the doorknob as a makeshift lock.

With careful steps, I padded up the termite-ridden stairway. A few steps down the hall, a smudged door led into a bathroom with a disgusting little sink that went drip drip drip. The cabinet doors, askew, hung open to empty shelves. The toilet was missing its seat, and its tank lid lay broken on the dirt-smudged floor.

But abandoned bathroom did display a rusty old claw tub. An upgrade to the dirty public park sink that I’d last “bathed” in. I turned the hot and cold faucets on, letting the brown water run until it ran more or less clear. I longed to plunge in and submerge myself.

My tattered jeans practically fell apart as I peeled them from my aching body.

Tears finally formed in my eyes as anger began to boil up through my chest. I sighed and crossed my hands and gripping the bottom hem, lifting it over my head and releasing it from shaking fists onto the vanity counter.

I stood before the vanity sink, trembling. Slowly, I lifted my downturned chin and forced myself to look into the cracked mirror. Somehow, despite what I’d just been through, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. My bloodshot blue eyes went wide, shock tingling through me, like thousands of tiny pinpricks. I felt the cruel reminder that my greasy blonde hair had not seen shampoo in who knows how long. Layers of dirt hid the freckles on my fair skin. But there was no camouflaging the swollen, black-and-blue lump on my forehead.

A quick glance around the small bathroom revealed a travel-size sliver of what was once Dove bar soap, stuck to the edge of the tub. Beggers can’t be choosers, but it would seem I’d have to choose between washing the filth from my clothes or scouring the grime from my body. I opted for washing myself, then using the dirty, but soapy, water to soak my clothes before rinsing the hell out of them. Maybe there would be some kind of left-behind towel in a cabinet down the hall. If not, I’d have to settle for naked and wet until my only clothes dried on the splintery banister. Whoever found this house before me clearly helped themselves to any appliances. There were none.

[I opted to turn this story in by the deadline over giving it a proper conclusion. I would love any ideas on where you think the story might go! Please let me know in the comments.]