She smeared the blood along the top of the window frame, taking care that it should not be visible from the therapy bed. It would be a secret between her and God (and, the sober afterthought occurred to her, the demons). She repeated the exercise with the opposite window and then, standing on a chair, painted the doorframe. As she pronounced the final Amen of her homespun ritual, she felt a great weight lifting off her. Elated, she jumped down to clean the spilled red flow from the tiled floor. Smiling as she kneeled, she realised that Sam would be concerned, but also, that he would understand.

Radar nudged her out of her reverie, his sensitive nostrils twitching in pursuit of the new rich smell of liquid iron and salt. Absent-mindedly, she let him lick her hand, but almost instantly recoiled at the pain and stared in dismay at the red trail she had left on his white curls. Recovering her balance, she pushed him away gently with the other hand. It was not an unfamiliar pain—accidents sometimes happened on the farm—but she would not be able to use her hand for a while. Never mind. It would heal quickly.

Reflection →

et cetera
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