Blood

The blood was warm...

...wet, sticky, sick, and sweet; it flowed from the small red opening with ease and moved along in a downward rivulet. A tiny stream, it eased along the line and curve of cheek until it reached the jaw and hung there, a fattened droplet, before falling to the floor. It fragmented upon the bare hardwood surface. The face it fell from trembled. The face it fell from paled.

A long time has passed since he started, and still I lay beneath the bed, curled and crying, my face pressed to the cold wood floor. I barely breathe, don't dare to. The mirrored door beyond me warns of what I face if found and God, forgive me, but better her than me. I watch the war unfold before me till I can not bear it anymore, and then I focus on the blood, drops of scarlet rain that fall faster now, until the drops become a rain and the rain a storm until there is blood no more.

And she never made a sound, damn her, never fought against him, only lay there while he rearranged her face. I close my eyes and pray to wake, even pinch myself, but nothing changes, only the pool of blood on the floor that seems to flow toward me now, conspiring with my fear. It will reach my nose soon, and already I can smell it. I could have stopped this, I could have changed this course. If I had only spoken up...if I had only stayed in bed...

He stopped moving. Did I make a sound? Did she? But there was too much blood here now, I don't think it could have been her. Was it me? Will he see me? If he turns and looks into the mirror he would see me hiding here and finish things clean. I watch his feet turn slowly, heavily, and he walks to the door, then stops.

Was it me again? Did I move too loud? He can hear the sweat as it forms on my skin, I know it. But my body is screaming from this position. Can he hear it? Does he hear my heart? I wish it would stop, like hers has.

The blood is cold now and my father, weeping, drops the knife.