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I walk into the bathroom, using my elbow to flip the switch. The room fills with light, and I glance at my reflection before reaching down and turning the faucet on. Hot water. Scalding water. You can’t wash it off with cold water. It just doesn’t work. So sticky. It was so sticky.
I watch as the red washes from my hand, swirling pink down the drain. Reaching for the soap, I scrub off the last remnants. The house is quiet, no longer ringing with shrill cries. The rooms that once contracted with the soft breaths of sleep have now settled, the woodwork no longer straining against those inside. A faint drip falls in the room adjacent to me, the carpet sloshes with each step, warm and wet.
So sticky.