Peanut Butter Fingerprints

Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Lady Macbeth"

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"What, will these hands ne'er be clean? Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand."

-Lady Macbeth, Act 5 Scene 1 of Macbeth 

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Maxon 

I WATCHED WITH A HEAVY HEART as America pulled her hands from underneath the rusty faucet, looked at them with wide, unfocused eyes, and plunged them back into the cold stream of water trickling into the crude sink. She'd been washing her hands for more than a half an hour now, trying to scrub the blood from her skin. Though, when she pulled them out of the sink to look at them, they seemed clean enough to me.  

I rose from where I was sitting on the metal bench and approached her slowly. My hand rested on her shoulder gently, so as not to startle her. I expected her to at least look up or acknowledge me, but she continued scrubbing her hands. 

Softly, I murmured, "America, I think they're clean."

She shook her head and continued dragging her nails across her raw skin. I reached an arm around her and turned the faucet off. Her shoulders tensed immediately, and her breath caught in her throat. 

"It's all gone. See?" I held up one of her dainty hands to show her that her skin is free of any blood.

"It's still there," she whispered back hoarsely, her words laced with panic. "I can still feel it. I can smell it too."

I wondered if shock was setting in again, or if she was having some sort of hallucinations. I knew that killing Fredrick had sent her over the edge she was already teetering on. Even though I didn't want to stress her out any further, I couldn't let her stand there in pain and wash her hands to the bone. 

I placed a hand on each of her shoulders and steered her away from the sink. America stumbled, her hands shaking and lips quivering. Luckily, I caught her before her knees buckled. She tumbled ungracefully into my arms as she started to fall. I nearly collapsed with her, but managed to stay on my feet as I leaned back against the wall. Aspen, who'd been arranging blankets in the corner for America, raced towards us. 

"Here, let me take her. You're exhausted," he exclaimed, holding his arms out. 

"Thank you," I replied quietly, and let him scoop America up like she weighed nothing and carry her to the makeshift bed in the corner. 

I followed closely behind him, watching as America's pale arm swayed with every step that he took. Since we'd been locked in this room together, where I stood with Aspen seemed to waver every second. One minute he was throwing his fist at my face; another, he was tucking America into bed and getting her a glass of water. 

The only thing that stood between us was America. She kept us from lashing out at each other; the only time we'd managed to fight was when she was unconscious. From the moment she had woken up, it'd been like we were friends. So many bitter words hung between us, but we knew we couldn't say them for America's sake. Once she fell asleep, though, that was a different story. 

I kneeled down next to her as Aspen filled up a glass with water from the sink in the corner. America blinked slowly at the ceiling as she clutched the wool blankets drawn up to her chest. Carefully, I lowered my hand to her face and brushed my knuckles across her cheek. It seemed to soothe her some, as she leaned into my touch and sighed. 

As Aspen dug in the first-aid kit for bandages to wrap around her hands (which I had to admit was a rather good idea), America had another contraction. Before they were off-and-on, but as time progressed, they became more regular and more painful. We didn't have much time before the twins arrived, and I sensed that America was well aware of that. After she'd woken up, America expressed to me her fears about having our babies in the safe room. I assured her that it wouldn't happen, but I wasn't so sure myself.