Chapter Twenty-Three Her

Chapter Twenty-Three Her

Seventeen Years Earlier

The blood wouldn’t wash off.

I scrubbed with the same sponge I usually used to clean the frying pan. Tried twisting my hands together under the hot water

until my fingers burned and my skin turned a weird pinkish red. The color matched the bubbles of soap filling the sink.

No matter how hard I rubbed, the red stain under my fingernails wouldn’t go away. I could still see it. Feel it.

No. No. No.

My body rocked back and forth from the force of the scraping and washing. I brushed hard, tearing at the skin around my nails

as a strange buzzing filled my head.

I could take the pain. What scared me was my mom.

My mind wandered to another place. One with sunshine and a playground. A big grassy space like the field where I used to play

soccer. My time on the team only lasted for a few weeks before Mom yanked me out, saying the sport took up too much of her

time. A kid at school made fun of me until I lied and told him I was playing on another team. A better team.

I lied a lot. To get things. To get out of things. To avoid the yelling.

The memory of my mom’s voice rang in my ears. She’d yawn and lie on the couch. You need to start doing something around here. I can’t do everything.

My mind snapped back to the sink. Tears fell. I sniffed them back, but they turned into a wild hiccup I couldn’t control.

I stared at the curtains. The small blue flowers on the once-white background that had turned a gross yellow.

I tried to pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The water swirled down the drain. Any sign of blood was gone now except for the droplets hanging from my hair. My pajamas

were soaked. My favorites with the pink and white stripes. The ones I begged Mom to buy. They were my only birthday present

this year.

The shorts were just a little bit long but that meant they hid more of my skin and would fit me for longer. Once they got

too small, Mom wouldn’t buy me another set. She said they were too babyish for a ten-year-old.

The thick red splotch across the front of my top felt wet and sticky against my skin. Red dots covered me like a fine mist

down to my knees. I curled my bare toes into the floor so I wouldn’t see the wash of red covering my right foot.

I’d stepped in the blood and almost slipped but grabbed the counter for balance. The move left a scary handprint on the tile

countertop. Mine. I stared at it, willing it away.

Mom was going to kill me.

It was my job to keep the apartment clean. To stay quiet so she could sleep. To make my breakfast and get myself to school

so she could rest from her jobs.

I messed up. The knife under my pillow was supposed to scare him. He put his hand over my mouth, and I lashed out before I even woke up. The rest was a blur. I didn’t remember stabbing or stumbling to the kitchen. He must have followed me, bleeding and injured.

My gaze shifted from my foot to the floor. Blood formed a puddle under his still body. It slowly spread out as if it were

reaching for me, ready to drag me down with him.

He didn’t move. I knew he couldn’t.

I killed him.