Christopher
I stare at myself in the mirror of the downstairs bathroom.
I can see the paleness on my face, my eyes bloodshot and hollow, like I haven’t slept in days.
Sweat clings to my forehead even though the room feels cold.
My hands tremble as I pull on the yellow gloves, the snap echoing in the tiled silence.
On the counter beside me are everything Martin told me to get—bleach, water, and a sponge.
I grip the edge of the sink, trying to steady myself. This was supposed to be simple, I remind myself.
Just clean up the mess. Get rid of the evidence. But as I pick up the bucket and step out of the bathroom, my legs feel heavy, like I’m wading through thick hot tar.
The smell hits me before I even see the stain.
It’s faint but metallic, sharp enough to turn my stomach. And when I
