There’s blood everywhere.

I’ve never seen so much blood. It’s soaking the cream-colored rug, seeping into the nearby floorboards, speckling the legs of the oak coffee table. Perfect oval droplets have made it all the way to the seat of the pale leather sofa, and large rivulets drip down the alabaster wall.

It’s endless. If I look hard enough, will I find flecks of blood on the car in the garage? On the blades of grass in the lawn? In the supermarket across town?

Even worse, it’s all over my hands.

What a mess. Despite the fact that I don’t have much time, I am itching to clean it all up. When there’s a stain, especially on the carpet, I was taught you’re supposed to clean it quickly, before it sets. Once it dries, the stain will become permanent.

Unfortunately, no matter how hard I scrub, it won’t do a thing for the dead body lying smack in the middle of the pool of blood.

I assess the situation. Okay, this is bad. My fingerprints in the house are expected, but the crimson caked into my fingernails and the grooves of my palms is less easy to explain. The darkening stain on the front of my shirt is not the kind of thing I can shrug off. I am in deep trouble.

If someone catches me.

I inspect my hands, weighing the pros and cons of washing off the blood versus getting the hell out of here right now. If I wash my hands, I will waste precious seconds in which I could be caught. If I leave

immediately, I’ll be walking out the door with blood all over my palms, smearing itself onto everything I touch.

And then the doorbell rings.

The chimes echo throughout the house as I freeze, afraid to even breathe. “Hello?” a familiar voice calls out.

Please leave. Please.

The house is silent. The person at the door will realize that nobody is home and decide to come back another time. They have to. If they don’t, I am finished.

The doorbell rings again.

Go away. Please go away.

I’m not one for prayer, but at this point, I’m ready to get down on my knees. Well, I would if doing so wouldn’t get blood all over my knees.

They must assume nobody is home. Nobody rings a doorbell more than twice. But just when I think there’s a chance I might be safe, the doorknob rattles. And then it starts to turn.

Oh no. The door is unlocked. In about five seconds, the person knocking will be inside the house. She will walk into the living room. And then she will see

This.

The decision has been made. I’ve got to run for it. There’s no time to wash my hands. There’s no time to worry about the bloody footprints I might be leaving behind. I’ve got to get out of here.

I only hope nobody discovers what I’ve done.