mess of covers and thinking about just how delightful it would be to just climb under that comforter for just a few minutes, just long enough to close his eyes and… And what? Sleep? What were the odds of that?
Feeling completely disheartened, his shoulders slouching, he knew that his only option would be to do the next best thing: take a nice, hot shower, and start the day anew.
Shedding his button down shirt, he tossed it into the corner of the room. He ran his fingers through his hair, rolling his neck about on his shoulders, as he kicked off his shoes and socks and walked into the bathroom.
Leaning toward the mirror, he opened his eyes wide and studied the myriad red veins that crept from the corners of his eyes into the dark irises. His heavy lids settling back down over the thin slits of his open eyes that rested deep within the dark bags beneath them, he stepped to the right, lifting the toilet seat and sighing mightily as he drained the nearly full pot of coffee that swelled within his bladder. Smiling to himself, he closed the lid, pressing the small metal handle that caused the loud whoosh that filled the room.
The cold tile felt almost nice beneath his aching feet as the muscles slid apart just enough to allow the cool surface to soothe the tight tendons. Ducking back to his left, he opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a towel from the small stack and slung it over the brass rim of the shower stall. Turning to go choose some different, and say, clean clothes to wear, he heard a faint thump as the towel fell from atop the opaque glass shower stall, landing in a clump on the floor.
Sighing, he whirled around as he hadn’t quite made it out of the bathroom yet. Kneeling to the floor, he swiped up the towel with his right hand. But before he could return to standing, he caught a glimpse of something on the floor.
“Dammit,” he grumbled, wiping the small droplets of the red fluid from the tile.
Tossing the towel back up over the top rim of the shower, he paused. He was definitely tired, he knew that, and under these circumstances there was no way that his brain was as sharp as he generally prided himself on keeping it, but he suddenly needed to figure out what the hell he had just wiped off the floor of his bathroom.
The first thought that crossed his mind was that Harry had used the bathroom, and being an older fellow and all, and having something of a physically taxing day, maybe there was just something wrong with the plumbing. But why would he have gone into his bedroom to use the bathroom when he would have passed one on the way down the hall, and the other one was more than likely a whole lot cleaner than his personal one.
Something caught his eye in the mirror. It had barely snared his attention from the far reaches of his peripheral vision, and it had taken him a moment to find it, but there it was, clear as day, and he suddenly wondered how he had possibly missed it when he had first entered the room.
There was a series of small red splotches, so dark they almost appeared black on the light blue horizontal blinds. He dabbed at one of them with his right index finger, recoiling quickly as it was still wet to the touch… and still warm. Lifting the blinds, he stared down at the windowsill that was covered with a splotch of the red fluid, which crawled over the molding and was running down the wall in a pair of small, crimson lines, just ready to peek out from beneath the curtains.
He tugged on the window, but it was locked tightly, and even through the frosted window he could see that the screen was still in place, so how could it have possibly gotten in there?
There was a small splat as one fine ball of the somewhat viscous fluid dropped from the orange peel-textured white wall to the tiled floor. His eyes followed the sound, staring at the small circle of red. And there were more, leading in a small line toward the base of the shower where he had wiped up the first couple of drops. And then he saw it, something that were he any less tired he would have noticed right away when he had first walked into the room. There, on the top edge of the brass handle affixed to the right side of the hinged, almost white looking glass, was another splotch of red. He peered more closely at it, creeping across the red spotted tile, his eyes fixed on the marking. Coming right up on top of it, he craned his head forward, inspecting it thoroughly. There were small whorls in the pattern pressed into the red mark on the shining brass fixture, and there was absolutely no denying that what he was looking at was, indeed, a thumbprint.
Scott’s breath caught in his chest. He was suddenly quite aware of just how alone he was in that bathroom, and wishing that he had opted for the clear glass panels for the shower, rather than the opaque.
Reaching out with his trembling hand, he grasped the brass handle, trying to catch his breath as he slowly pulled outward. There was a small popping sound as the door disengaged from the magnetic seal, the glass door swinging backward with slight squeak. His eyes grew wide, his jaw falling slack. From his shaking legs all the way up and over his shoulders, his whole body started to quiver at once. Every tiny hair that covered his skin stood straight on end as he saw it, right in the middle of the floor of the shower stall as soon as he looked inside.
Fighting back the urge to vomit, his stomach heaving dryly, he cupped a hand over his mouth and stared down at the pile of flesh that lay in the middle of a bloody pool that slowly trickled down the circular drain beneath the showerhead. The tattered remnants of a shredded shirt clung to the chest of the body, saturated with the crimson mess. The legs were crumpled to either side, the jeans torn away from the scraped knees. Blood ran in small lines over the bare feet, dripping from between the toes.
All he could see of the head was a mass of dark, tangled hair, the man’s chin resting in the middle of his chest. The tips of each ear appeared to have been clipped off, blood puddling in the hollows of his ears, forming large droplets at the bottom of each lobe. There was a small circular scar in the lobe of the left ear, apparently from where the hole from a piercing had healed shut.
Shaking violently, he reached toward the man with his right hand, pressing on the forehead with just the middle finger of his hand as he leaned the head back. Staring straight into the face, he could tell at first glance exactly who it was, even though he hadn’t seen him in years. Jeremy looked exactly same as he had in high school, even without his eyes. His hair was a little shorter, and his features more mature, but there was no mistaking it.
Ripping back his hand, Scott turned away from the body, the head bouncing several times off the chest before rolling to the right. The image of the face was engraved into the back of his head, and all he could see as he closed his eyes was the empty sockets of the eyes. The lids were sunken inward; streams of blood poured from the corners of the eyes, running through the thick stubble on the cheeks, clinging in drops at the line of the chin, hanging there perpetually as if they would never fall. The open mouth exposed the swelling tongue, which pressed on the chipped front teeth, the lips faded from their formerly dark pink as he remembered them to a more subdued, pale shade of light blue.
“Harry…” he managed in only a meek whisper.
He swallowed the huge lump that had formed in his throat, slowly pushing himself backward along the floor, his hands and bare feet barely able to get any traction on the slick tile.
“Harry!” he shouted, the word booming through the upstairs bathroom.
Unable to fight the urge any longer, he stared through the open shower door at the body that sat almost Indian style in the middle of the blue marble stall. He shook his head over and over, as if that sign of disbelief would change the fact that he was actually staring at it. A muffled whimper crept from his chest as the only other sound in the room was the light trickling of the blood dripping down the drain.
Breaking his gaze, he leapt to his feet, turning his back on the bathroom as he raced across the bedroom and into the hallway.
“Harry!”
Rounding the corner, he could see the living room straight down the hallway at the base of the stairs. Harry was still completely unconscious in the chair, a small line of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth.
“Harry!” Scott shouted. He hit the stairs at a full sprint, hurdling them three at a time as he grasped the railing.
Harry shot upright; looking completely perplexed as he wiped the saliva from his chin with the back of his hand. Squinting, he stared at Scott who was already crossing the living room floor.
“What’s going on?” he mumbled through a yawn. He gently massaged his stiff lower back with his left hand.
“Come on!” Scott shouted right into his face as he grabbed him by the hand and nearly yanked him right out of the chair.
“I’m coming!” Harry snapped, snatching his hand back from Scott.
“Jesus Christ,” Scott muttered as he raced back toward the stairs, clambering up to the hallway and ducking back into him room.
He could hear Harry’s muffled footsteps on the plush carpeting as they reached the top of the staircase and
