I stand in the doorway for a while and look at it. I TOLD YOU NOT TO GO. Some of the blood has dried darker than the rest, almost black at the edges. Part of me wants to clean it, but the thought of expending the energy required to find a bucket, and soap, and bleach, and hot water, and to stood where he stood and scrub away what he wrote there… It makes me want to vomit with exhaustion.
Instead, I back up and pull the bathroom door shut.
Other rooms beckon to me. The kitchen, to eat something. My bedroom, to sleep until this horrible saga ends. The couch, to numb my brain with mindless TV so I don’t have to think about how terrified Elliot looked to see me again.
But I don’t go to any of those places. I walk to the kitchen, open the junk drawer next to the fridge, and dig around until
