Bloody Hands
"Good morning," he says casually. I'm in shock that he's in my room and I'm half awake staring up at him bleary-eyed. The clock reads 5:00 am.
He grabs my jaw, curling his fingers behind my teeth, and tugs me out of bed. Reluctantly and still stunned, I have no choice but to follow as he pulls me through my room, downstairs, and into the bathroom. He says nothing until he opens the bathroom door and points at the toilet.
"Sit," he commands and I do so. He lets go of my jaw and teeth. I am still fully clothed in my fall pajamas, now, sitting on the toilet looking up at him in confusion. My tongue instinctively flicks over the back of my teeth where he had been. I taste copper. That's when I finally notice he has blood all over his hands.
Without a word, he begins washing the blood off in my sink as he hums. He doesn't look at me but I see him glance up into the mirror. He moves his head side to side, probably checking for any visible blood splatter as his eyes are keenly looking himself over. Then, he looks over his shoulder down at me.
"How did you sleep?" He asks casually. Too casually. My mind is reeling. How did he get into my house. How did he even know where I lived. Why the fuck did he have blood on his hands. So many questions circling my brain, and yet, I am stuck on the fact he asked me a question. I'm so thrown off by trying to answer when my mind is screaming its own questions at me.
"Um, okay I guess," I stammer out and he nods his head in response. Silence takes over for a moment. I'm trying to sort through all the questions to figure out what's vital to ask first and decide it's the bloody hands. "Why was there blood all over your hands?"
"Good question," he states flatly, "Do you ask because you're concerned I am injured or for other reasons?" He turns completely and smirks at me.
"I'm uh not even sure right now." I answer honestly then think to find a reason, "Both?"
He quietly shows me his one hand and I see a gash that has started to bleed again. He shows the other. It is also beginning to bleed. He takes my face in his hands and holds me tightly. Smearing his fresh blood on both of my cheeks, he pulls me up by my face off from the toilet.
"Look," he says and pushes me almost into the mirror. I step back a bit to focus on my reflection. His blood looks like a bad makeup job and I blush under the crimson all over my cheeks. I'm not even sure why I feel embarrassed. Actually, I'm starting to feel ashamed. Deeply ashamed, I hang my head. "What's wrong, girl?" He prods.
I can't answer because I don't know. I stare helplessly into the mirror, afraid to turn away or close my eyes yet not even seeing my reflection anymore. I'm looking right past my own face until it's invisible to me. He turns me around after a few minutes of silence. Now I shut my eyes. I can't look into his. I still don't even know why or what's going on right now. He reaches down and painfully physically opens my eyelids.
"Do my hands not mold you? Does my sacrifice not make you worthy?" He continues to prod. He points at the toilet and I sit down again. He softens his gaze but keeps staring at me waiting for an answer.
And I think. And think. I'm fully awake but my brain still can't wrap around his questions ... or my unasked questions. I realize I still haven't been taking care of myself quite the way I should. Was he telling me that I'm wasting his time with my lack of effort? Is that why I feel ashamed? He's telling me that my self-hatred is getting in the way of his work.
I look up at him and he can see it's dawned on me. He crouches down to look straight into my eyes. He takes a finger and moves a bit of his blood from my cheek to my bottom lip and kisses me; soft and quick. Then abruptly bites my lower lip hard.
"This is your only friendly reminder, girl," he whispers.
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