[Giovanni]
I was whistling a country tune when the blood finally stopped leaking from the sink. Warm water washed over my hands in soothing little swirls, pink-tinted and oddly calming. I liked this part—clean hands, clean mind. My sleeves were already rolled up to the elbows, though the cuffs of my white shirt had long been decorated with blood spatters that weren't mine. I twisted the faucet shut and reached for the towel hanging from the oven handle.
Behind me, someone groaned.
A wet, throaty kind of sound. Like someone trying to swallow pain but failing miserably. I smiled to myself, drying each finger meticulously before sliding on my black leather gloves, one by one. I took my time.
Good art often calls for patience.
On the kitchen counter sat a small, dark chocolate coloured s
