I couldn’t reach.
It wasn’t my fault.
A hot sensation kissed my face, clouding my vision with red. The metallic tinge dripped to my lips. I ran my tongue over it, looking down at the bloodied opener and the crimson coating on my hands, spreading to my white tea gown.
A fine line across his neck, going from pink to red immediately. His expression might as well have been mirroring mine, the wound gaping similar to his mouth, spraying blood instead of the profanities I was used to.
He finally let go of me to press that same grip on his neck. He stumbled back but faltered before his back could hit the wall.
“I’m ... I’m sorry, wait—” I pleaded, kneeling before him, the front of my dress turning pink with every droplet that sputtered from the wound. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I wept, trying to press my hands to his neck, which only resulted in more smears and nicking him again with the opener.
I tossed it in horror, blood splattering as it clattered on the floor.
Thank God my carpet was already red.Did he get any on the wallpaper? Oh, of course, I’m wearing the new tea gown!It would be too embarrassing to go buy the same one again in such a short time. I wasn’t willing to part with it, but I was unaware of what would wash out blood.
His expression—pure and utter shock. It was alien to me, the behavior of a dying man. An awful, terrible, wet gasping coming from his mouth instead of his typical verbal abuses.
Then, the door creaked, the rush of rain showers hissing among the cobblestones.
No, not now!
Mr. Kamenev entered, not noticing the situation at first as his gaze was lowered.
Everything was quiet.
Everything was still.
Everything but my heart.
He shrugged off his coat, popping the collar onto the coatrack. He squinted, brushing some dust from the shoulder. Then, before removing his boots, his eyes followed the spray of blood on the floor until they settled on my patron, then on me.
I finally let go, my situation settling on me.
He slammed the door shut.
Mr. Carlisle reached out, mouthing pleading words.
I sobbed, “I’m sorry—”
Arkady snatched the letter opener from the floor.
I didn’t know what to do with the blood that stained my hands, so I held them palms up.
“Call the police—” Mr. Carlisle tried desperately to warn my husband against my transgressions, his mouth moving as fast as it could.
But it slacked when my husband buried the letter opener through the coroner’s eye.
Vincent’s mouth gaped open and closed like a jittering nutcracker, wide-eyed and all.
With a final shove, he stilled.
“Speechless” was too weak a word to describe what I felt. I wanted to say many things, but I wondered if reminding him of my presence was a good idea after what I’d just witnessed.
There was a long pause. From fear? A lack of an explanation? How would I begin to explain myself?
Why did you do that?
“Clean yourself, you’re a sopping mess.” Arkady broke the thick veil of silence, dragging his palm and the back of his hand down an unstained part of Vincent’s trousers.
