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  • Writer's pictureShelly Desjarlais

The Blood

The wind blows through the dark like a Subway train. I pull the collar of my coat around my cheeks to combat the chill, but it does little to warm my icy skin on this October night. I run my fingertip across the glass walls of the bus stop, tracing the raindrops and wet leaves that cling to its surface. Time is passing slower than usual.

After what seems like a lifetime, the bus finally arrives. I climb aboard, tapping my commuter card as I go. There is a quiet spot in the back beside the window. I take my seat and try to remember how I got here. I can’t. All I know is that I am heading home.

I get off at my usual stop. It is a brisk walk to my townhouse. When I reach the front steps, I realize that the door is ajar. I put away my keys and cautiously push the door open. As it squeals aside, I am met with blood puddles upon the floor and spatter on the walls.

“Kristen!” I call for my wife. “Kristen?”

The blood trail leads me up the steps. I follow the smears on the floor to my bedroom. Kristen is sitting on the edge of the bed, and she is covered in red. Her hands are soaked with it. She cries as she looks at our bathroom. I try to get her attention.

“Kristen, why wouldn’t you answer me? Are you hurt?”

She says nothing. Her eyes are fixated on the bathroom. It’s as if she is in a daze. I wave my hand in front of her face, and she does not budge. Once I’ve given her a quick look over, I realize the blood on her is not her own. I decide to check the bathroom.

I walk towards the bathroom carefully. For all I know, the madman who spilled this blood is waiting for me in there. I peek through the doorway. There is blood all over the shower doors, making it impossible to see through the glass. I approach the shower a few steps at a time. Then, I reach for the shower door handle. I pull it aside.

My mutilated body lies on the shower floor. Someone has torn into me with a blade over fifty times. I back away in shock. Am I dead? I think back, remembering the moment I came home from work. Somebody was waiting for me by the door. They pounced.

I tried to run up the steps. They pursued. They kept stabbing me even as I tried to hide in the shower. There, I bled out at a snail's pace. My eyes were slashed, so I never saw the attacker. I died without knowing why.

My wife comes into the bathroom now. She is sobbing and shaking like a leaf. I try to reach for her, to comfort her, but I am a ghost. My hands flow through her like an autumn breeze. I can only watch as she drops to her knees beside my body. She cradles my head as her eyes water.

“Oh, baby,” she sniffles. “I don’t know what to do.”

As tears come to my eyes, I see the knife sticking out of her pocket.

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