red_spots Soma I'll never forget way the dull beige living room, seemingly so small with its equally dull beige tile floor, now seemed so vast and large as I gazed across the glossy red puddles and speckles and spots. The way my hands trembled as I smelled the tangy iron of blood, and saw the splintered wooden chairs laying around the dining table. The way my sneakers squicked with each step, pulling with subtle resistance like that within my mind, as I walked all the way across that tile, to my room. Opening the door, a flash of black by my feet. I startled, stumbling backwards with a thump against the wall. I felt the warmth of a small black cat, pushing angrily against my ankles. Just the cat. I sighed in relief. But why was her cat in my room? My room was rumpled, something slightly amiss. I wandered back across that sanguine room, eyeing a bloody knife that laying in a puddle of the stuff on the tabletop. The blood had long since soaked into cloths and chips that were spilled across its surface, and the surrounding floor. Down the hall the blood grew thicker, smeared handprints along the wall. I called their names, but no reply. Red spots, when I found out why. Red spots on the curtains draping round the bed. Her face as bloody as a newborn, and she slept as soundly in that bed. A handle of whiskey next to her, in a hand that still freely bled from a gash. "You can't call the cops on me" she later said. And she was right, those bastards don't handle domestic matters. Maybe she kept drinking, in that bloody house. I left. And maybe all that blood got cleaned away, in coming days. But she's still a spot inside my head. 230404 what's it to you? who go blather from