Enter the Bathroom

You enter the bathroom by sliding open the rickety, hanging, slatted, pink door.  It's small.  It's very small.  Taking a very good look around at the moment, you begin to wonder how you ever really manage to use this room.  Especially since, looking very closely at this room for the first time in the three years you've lived here, you realize the plumber had to have been some sort of maniacal sadist.

The bowl of the toilet is nearly under the sink, leaving room for maybe a child of about four to sit improperly.  All three handles are missing from the faucet (upon further thought, you wonder why you never noticed the sink that three tap handles to begin with . . . and then you decide it's not worth speculating as to what the third tap handle could possibly be for), as is the plug.  The bath tub is located half in, and half out, of the small linen closet.

Oh yes . . . and every wall is covered with small, little, one-inch square mirrors.

Also, sitting by the toilet is a stack of magazines.  They are unreadable, since they have a wonderful growth of mossy-like mold covering them.  Covering them completely.

Upon a closer inspection of the bathroom (by which this means 'turning in a small circle three or four times'), you notice that there is also something in the very back of the linen/bath closet.

Completely ignoring the fact that the smell you're searching for is not in the bathroom, and, oddly enough, the bathroom doesn't smell, anyway, do you . . .

The End

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