Bloody Hands

“Sam, what are you,” began the confused voice, “good God Sam, what the fuck happened to your hands?”
         The owner of the voice, a slender blond of seventeen opened the screen door to the run-down, ranch-style home and stepped out into the cool evening breeze of the Colorado plains.
         For the first time since he had begun walking Sam noticed his hands; once the delicate hands of a pianist were now saturated in blood. His blood, he decided at the start of pain that arched like lightning through his right arm as Savannah grasped his hand in hers.
“I…” he began, his voice small and weak.
“Never mind,” Savannah said, tugging on his arm, “just get inside.”
Shooting pain once again darted up his nerves as she tugged him inside the house. She guided him across a sea of plain brown shag carpet to the black armchair resting by the wood-burning stove in the corner of the living room. She hurried back across the room to the door. Shutting it silently, she proceeded around the dim living room, closing all the blinds.
Sam looked around the room. Though he had walked her home several times from the local high school, Sam had never actually entered Savannah’s dwelling. There were queer paintings of misshapen humanoid figures practically covering the walls. All these were staring down at the occupants of the room beneath thick blankets of dust.