“Could you clean that up?”
For a moment I couldn’t quite grasp his meaning. My thoughts lingered between the ache in my arm and the noise of metal cutting the air. Then I looked where he was staring. Down at my hand. At the blood gathering, in the creases of my palm.
I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the blood…
Or me.
A part of me shattered upon hearing those words. Not, with a bang. Not instantly. Merely a soft fracture that cut through the hope I had been clutching like a secret injury. I glanced up at him seeking any trace—remorse, doubt, a hint that this had crossed a line.
There was nothing.
Only control.
Only distance.
Blood leaked continuously from my knuckles now warm and gradual sliding through my fingers and falling onto the ground.
No.
I was unable to accomplis
