Blood Is Spilled


	Blood is spilled
There is a light on over the basin, presently the only source of illumination.
It’s yellow light fails to extend far into the shadows, leaving the perimeter cloaked.
			The basin, the light, and the fear.
A hesitant hand turns the faucet on leaving a crimson smear on the fixture which is shaped like an even armed cross with a tiny "H" imprinted on it.
			The crimson fills in the "H".

		It glares brightly, accusingly.
		There is something that must be remembered. Or is it something that must be forgotten?
The pipes groan with the effort of conjuring water and then with a preliminary sputter, it begins to flow.
			The hands reach into the stream and cold water and too much blood splash in the basin.
What does "H" mean?
	The real question: Who’s blood is this?

	Will it be more frightening to realize that they have been injured or to find that there is no apparent explanation for its appearance here on these hands?

	Warming water flows. Blood swirls down the drain.
	The light flickers. Then it dims.
		The darkness edges hungrily in.
A desperate cry escapes from a constricting throat as the tepid yellow light is entirely extinguished.
	In the darkness there is no "H" to pose questions.