Hands shake uncontrollably, cover my contorted face.
Flesh and blood and vomit, and then scented toilet paper seeped with it all flushes down in swirls.
I tend to the wound on my hand, dispassionately pouring peroxide, feeling only sharp twinges of pain.
I wash my face, my hair and take a shower, brush my teeth, brush them again and then proceed to wipe of all the bloodstains from the bathrooms walls and floor, towels and rugs.
But they’re everywhere and I give up, a disgusting metallic aftertaste on my tongue, still touching the occasional mushy bit between my teeth.
To the bathroom I return with a plastic bag; I throw away bottles of lotions and towels, everything sporting a flicker of thick red.
Throw away the ones soaked up in blood along with the plastic bag from the bathroom and take another shower, feeling filthy despite scorching water.