Hungry

Chalk lines washed away easily enough, but bloodstains didn’t. She dipped the brush back into her bucket of water. It stained a lovely pink to match sore knuckles. She furiously worked the brush until the floor was lathered in frothy red. It was almost beautiful in the late afternoon light… almost, well, no–not almost: definitely a bit seductive. Fuck it. She frantically pried up her loose floorboard and plucked out the knife with blood still crusted around the handle. Lovely. She stood, hungry for more than the mere memory of blood on her hands. The mess would wait. She couldn’t.