Plan C

Chapter 3

Blood—real blood—was sticky, glistening in the harsh sunlight. It had a dark brown hue, the kind that reminds you of molasses, rich and heavy on my trembling hands. The metallic scent enveloped me, reminiscent of pennies piled high in a forgotten corner, a smell so intense it felt like I was drowning in it. I was covered in this viscous essence, slick and repulsive against my skin.

It's strange how your mind can wander in moments like these. How within the span of mere seconds, time expands into an eternity. Thoughts swirl chaotically around like leaves caught in an autumn gust; you could have an entire conversation with yourself without realizing that no time has passed at all. "How am I going to get this sticky blood off my hands?" The thought nagged at me insistently, growing more uncomfortable by the moment. "I don't want the girls to see it."

I had fallen asleep there on the island, my head resting heavily on my blood-stained hands. In those fleeting moments before waking, I must have slipped into a dreamless void beside Leah's body—a chilling reminder of what had just transpired. But now as I blinked awake to reality, I found myself alone. The table bore the same dark stain as my hands—the remnants of a tragedy woven into its very fabric—but Leah was gone.

Dazed and unsteady on my feet, I stumbled toward the open door. Outside, I could see Kenneth and my father digging with grim determination under the relentless sun; their forms were blurred by the glare as I shielded my eyes with fingers still tainted red-brown from what had happened. Nearby on the ground knelt Nate next to Leah's body—wrapped tenderly in a sheet from our bed at home—and he was whispering something soft to her.

In the distance, laughter danced through the air like fragile butterflies carried by a gentle breeze; it was my daughters playing in the field nearby—innocent and blissfully unaware of our shared heartache at that moment. My heart skipped painfully when glancing towards them; they were gathering wildflowers for Leah's grave while my mother stood close by with a new rifle slung across her shoulder—her protective instinct kicking instinctively into gear.

Descending the steps slowly felt like wading through a treacle as despair settled over me once again. My feet moved almost on their own accord toward Nate; when he took my hand to rise and meet me eye-to-eye, his touch sent chills racing up my spine—the coldness of his hand matched only by his pallor—the color drained away along with life's warmth after hours of grief-stricken tears.

Each heartbeat resonated between us as if we were connected through invisible threads woven tight by shared sorrow—a bond forged from loss itself rather than comfort being exchanged between friends or lovers. Though I meant to be supportive of him in his time of need, it felt strangely reciprocal as if Nate was holding me up...protecting me even now.

Maybe that was just who he was—a guardian spirit shielding those around him from despair—even amid such devastation where death lingered thickly like smoke after flames extinguished.

We stood side by side over Leah's lifeless form and said a prayer together—a raw moment steeped deeply in heartache as Kenneth and Nate lowered her gently into her new grave beneath trembling earth while soft petals fell down around her like delicate confessions filled with love.

A song would have marked this moment beautifully—a melody fitting for such sadness—but no words resided within me to rise above silence nor find harmony within this cacophony of grief clamoring inside instead so instead I uttered silent prayers for her soul—as if somehow she could hear them whispering softly from beyond—and lifted a shovel heavy with a purpose to help cover her grave beneath layers of soil again returning life back into nature's embrace where she would finally find peace once more amidst our loss that would ripple through existence from this day forth forevermore...

I wasn't religious, not anymore. The remnants of my upbringing clung to me like an old coat—Irish Catholic to the core, yet worn thin by years of disillusionment. Funerals were a chaotic mess of mixed emotions, where liquor flowed freely and music intertwined with laughter, celebrating the life of someone who had departed. Prayer felt more like a mindless recitation than a heartfelt communication; words blurred into an obligation rather than genuine belief. Why risk it? Who knew what awaited us on the other side? All we could do was face the world in front of us.

Leah had slipped away into what was supposed to be a different world—a better one—while ours crumbled around us. The very fabric of our lives seemed to stretch thin and fray at the edges, threads unraveling one by one as grief gnawed at our hearts. We had to keep moving forward; we had no choice but to put one foot in front of the other, no matter how heavy they felt.

Kenneth was driving now, his expression set in grim determination as he navigated through the darkened streets that mirrored our collective sorrow. Meanwhile, my children huddled together in their grandparents' bedroom, their innocent laughter mixed with distant echoes from a movie playing nearby—a sound both comforting and jarring against the backdrop of our reality.

Nate and I found ourselves in another battle—a desperate search for a cleaner capable of removing blood from where life had once pulsed vibrantly around us. My mind raced back to vague memories of home remedies that might offer salvation amidst this chaos. Pinterest had been my go-to for such hacks, and I missed its endless scrolls filled with miraculous solutions more than I could articulate.

And then it struck me: hydrogen peroxide! It was supposed to be effective for blood stains on carpets. A flicker of hope ignited within me at this recollection; if only I had remembered sooner! Still, caution restrained me—I didn't want to waste any precious resources we still possessed amid this turmoil.

We started with water and dish detergent—simple yet effective tools for our daunting task—and then moved on to apply peroxide in hopes it would eradicate the crimson reminders from our kitchen island that now resembled a battlefield more than a home.

Afterward, feeling overwhelmed by exhaustion bordering on hysteria, I escaped to the bathroom in search of solace and cleanliness—two things that felt permanently out of reach since Leah's departure. As I scrubbed furiously at my hands under scalding water, frustration overwhelmed me once again. Sobs erupted from deep within; each tear mingled with regret as I fought desperately against what seemed impossible—to wash away not just blood but grief itself.

No matter how hard I tried, nothing would cleanse me from this visceral reality—the remnants that lingered long after Leah's last breath echoed through my mind like an uninvited guest refusing to leave.