Scrounger: Seventeen

eavy rainfall douses the wooden porch as rivulets of red drain in between the boards. Her eyes open to the feeling of rain hitting her exposed legs. Her long summer dress is soaked, and sits piled up against her thighs. She pushes herself up, rubs her eyes and notices the arm.

The forearm balances over the steps, the fingers, at least what’s left of them, dangle, dripping red drops. She looks down, her hair, like wet straw, sticks to her shoulders and chest. Smears of dark blood stain her dress. She feels a sticky wet around her lips, like syrup. She wipes her arm across her mouth, and blood smudges across skin. She touches her lip, winces, and realizes her lip is cut.

All that blood couldn’t have come from her lip, could it?

And that arm?

She stands up and holds herself against the porch railing. Her stomach lurches her forward, and she throws her head and the contents of her stomach over. Convulsions and chunky red explode forth, and she screams at her husband’s wedding ring in the grass.