The red won’t come off. It’s everywhere – Flecks of crimson are scattered across the wall, on your clothes, a deep crimson stain seeping through the creases of your palms. You scrub the flannel across your skin and shove your hands under the hot tap again, the hiss of the pipes and the rush of water against porcelain drowning out your panicked, heavy breathing.
You scrub until your skin is chapped and raw, as red as the water in the sink bowl, and finally meet your own eyes in the mirror. For a moment, they seem to be crimson too.
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