Blood

A scratch.1

A pause as I hold out his hand, the knife loose in mine.2

A rip. I don't like the sound the rip makes.3

For a second, there is nothing but the trace of a white line across his arm, like the kind of line you see painted along the middle of a road, or like an icy river seen from far above.4

A frown.5

I see the blood beginning to pool just beneath the skin, deep red even in the darkness, and I groan in satisfaction as the first drop starts to run down to crook of his elbow, not hurrying, which I like. I don't like it too fast, because I can't watch it as well, and I like to see the first drop. If I miss the first drop, it's worthless.6

A sniff.7

The damp and the dirt masks the scent, but I know the smell is there, because the blood is there; I can see it. The blood hasn't forgotten its smell, and it won't forget its taste either, because it can't. I lean closer, careful not to let go of his frozen hand, the one with the bitten fingernails, and watch the blood. It hasn't forgotten how to move, or its scarlet colour, so why should it forget its smell?8

A crack, a crunch.9

A screech.10

I jerk away, my eyes wide with animal fear, looking around for the noise. I can't see anything which might have made it, because we’re alone apart from the bed and the door and the broken window. I don't think any of those things could have made such a sudden noise.11

I'm starting to feel anxious, worried I might panic, when I glance down at my hand and see that I must have been holding his too tightly, because the fingers are limp and strangely shaped, which means I must have broken the bones in them. I wasn’t careful. If you aren't careful, things can break, because something always has to give. I can’t change a fact.12

I look up and his face is screwed up, like he's in pain. He’s breathing differently, too, through his teeth.13

A drip. It startles me.14

The blood is getting thicker, running quickly from his arm in several streams, forking off from the cut and falling down his arm onto the floor, where all the little drops become pools. They entrance me completely; the way the blood shines even when there's no light, the way it all seems to flow together.15

A groan.16

“Shut up.”
He's being quiet now, so he must have heard me shush him. Either that or he’s choosing to stay quiet.17

My eyes are still wide, and they flicker away from the floor to his arm and to his face, all bruised and swollen. His eyes are closed, not like mine. He mustn't be able to see anything, so really there's no point in me looking at him, but I do anyway. I cock my head.18

His face had been beautiful, I remember. Before his lips got cut and his eyes were blackened and his hair was matted with dirt, I had loved his face more than anything about him – except for the sound of his heart, pumping his blood all around his body. But his face is ugly now, so I look away.19

The blood is flowing steadily from the artery, and as I watch it, I imagine what it must have looked like a minute ago, when it was coursing around his heart and his lungs and his brain and all the rest of his insides. I wonder if it’s dark in there, or if it would still be as red as it is now.20

Without anyone in there to see it, who knows what colour it is?21

A shudder all over.22

I shake my head, even though I remember that his eyes are closed. I wish he wouldn't move. It makes the blood shake, and it falls too quickly.23

A drip, a drip, a drip, a drip.24

I get used to the new rhythm. The pools on the dirty floor have congealed, and the little lake floods over the dirty floor to swell towards me, my legs crossed, my hands touching his arm, because I don't want to hold his broken hand. There is blood on my knuckles, but it's mine, because my skin isn't very strong. There’s a little on my fingernails because I scratched him, and he bled because his skin is weak too. I’ve dropped the little knife.25

A moan.26

"I said shut up, we have to be quiet."27

Maybe he changed his mind about being quiet, or maybe he forgot that I already warned him. I don't mind reminding him if he forgets.28

The blood moves softly and easily, sliding down his smooth skin, red on white. I like that better than the red on the black floor, because white is a cleaner colour, and I don't like the blood getting dirty.29

A sob. It's faint, but I hear it.30

I wonder whether I should remind him again, but I don't think he could have forgotten twice, so I cover his mouth with my hand. There’s water falling from his eyes, but it isn't as dark and thick and sparkling as the blood, so I look back to his arm, which is whiter than my own skin, except for the blood. I don't like feeling his prickly skin on my hand, but I don't move, because I don't want him making noises.31

I'm getting worried. I still can't smell the blood, and now it’s touching my bare feet, soaking the frayed bottoms of my jeans, which I don't like because they look messy. They never used to be frayed. I bend forwards until my spine aches, putting my nose as near to his arm as I can without touching the blood.32

A sniff, again.33

A sigh.34

For a moment, I look to him, thinking that even my hand over his mouth isn't covering his sobs, but then I realise that I made the noise, because I still can't smell the damn blood, can't smell the salt or the iron over the cold odour of the dirt and the dust.35

I remind myself that we have to be quiet, very quiet, because if we are very quiet, the blood might remember its lovely smell.36

"Mmmff."37

I know that I didn't make this noise because my lips are closed tight, and I was watching the blood trickling down his paling arm. I look up to see his face, and I notice that now, his eyes are open slightly, and I can just about see the brown amongst the white. His chest rises and falls quickly, and if he had the strength I think he would try to struggle.38

"Quiet," I tell him.39

I hope he remembers this time, because soon I might lose my patience. I look at his eyes for longer than I want to, because I can see something in them which I don't like at all, but I can't think what to call it. Even more water falls down his face, but I don't like to watch it, because it doesn't have a colour, not like his blood.40

I start to feel a little worried again when I look down to see that the blood has stopped flowing. There’s nothing but a line of red stretching from his wrist to his elbow, and no new drops falling to the floor. I can already see it beginning to dry, and turning from a sparkling liquid to a dull crust.41

A blink.42

His face is very pale, and his eyes are creased at the sides. The water is soaking his face and my hand, but I still don't want to take it away. I feel his lips shaking, and as I look down to my other hand, I see his snapped fingers moving, the way an insect wriggles its legs when it’s on its back. It makes me feel sick and sad at the same time, which I don't like at all.43

"Hhmmm."44

A silence.45

I can tell he is dead, because his chest is still, his eyes are blank, and no air is blowing on my hand. I take it away from his mouth; he isn't going to make any noises now. Maybe I killed him, maybe I held him too hard, like his hand, and maybe I stopped him breathing. I can tell now that I'm really worried because my thoughts are too fast, too scared.46

His eyes are still creased, and the water is still coming, even though I'm sure he's dead. My fingers let go of his arm.47

A thud.48

It makes a soft sort of noise as it hits the floor.49

I see a man sprawled against the wall, his head tilted back, a scarf of bruises around his neck and ringing his eyes. There are scratches on his shoulders, and his shirt is ripped and stained.50

He's dead, but he's still crying. This confuses me a little, and I don't like the way his lips are parted, or the trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. I feel myself start to shake, and that scares me even more.51

A kiss. I kiss his lips, like I always did when I was scared.52

I lick my lips as I lean away, looking all around the room at the smashed bed, the broken door, the cracked window, my bloody hands.53

I feel water run down my own cheek, because I even can't taste the blood.