The Haunted - Jessica Verday [42]
Liquid started to seep across the papers that were scattered there.
“Damn it! Those are my notes for the Ashes Turned Bone perfume,” I said.
Lunging to sweep my papers out of the way, I hit a test tube, and it fell too, splintering into a dozen pieces. Quickly righting the apricot oil bottle, I held the damp notes to my chest with one hand and reached down to the floor with the other, groping blindly for something I could use to clean up the mess. My hand struck what felt like a crumpled T-shirt, and I threw it down on top of the puddle slowly inching its way across my desk.
I carried the papers over to my bed and used the corner of a pillowcase to dab at the ex-cess oil as I spread them out to dry. Then I went back over to clean up the broken glass.
I picked up my garbage can along the way and carefully deposited the fractured glass into it. It didn’t look like there were any small splinters to worry about, but as I picked up the last piece, it sliced across my thumb. Immediately, blood welled up, and I wrapped my finger in the bottom of my tank top to stop the bleeding.
Only after my hand started turning white from applying so much pressure did I look down to assess the damage. My tank top stuck to the wound, and when it finally pulled free, it was spotted with bright red splotches of blood. Lots of blood.
I felt a curious sense of detachment as I gazed down at it. Blood had never bothered me before, and it was almost like I was looking at someone else’s injury. More bright beads welled to the surface of my thumb, and I shuffled over to the bathroom. First-aid kit was in there.
I opened the medicine cabinet one-handed and pulled out a small plastic container, then flipped the latch and grabbed some antibiotic ointment and a large square bandage. I squeezed a line of thick ointment across the cut. The gel clotted with the blood, tinting the mixture pink. After peeling back the white plastic strips of the bandage, I wrapped the sticky ends first around one edge of my thumb and then the other.
Satisfied with my patch-up job, I stuffed the antibiotic ointment back into the first-aid kit and returned it to the medicine cabinet. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror then and stared at my reflection. I was a mess.
Blood speckled the bottom of my shirt, while apricot oil stained the top. My hair was ratty and tangled, and my cheeks were bright red. I turned to the left and checked out my exposed shoulders. They were red too. Sunburn. The indent left behind by my thumb turned white and then red. Ouch. That’s going to peel.
Feeling all sticky and dirty, I stripped out of my clothes and jumped into the shower. It hurt my shoulders at first, but after a couple of minutes they grew numb to the stinging sensation. I reached for the shampoo bottle and turned it over, preparing to squirt some of it into my palm.
My thumb had bled through the bandage in a small crimson circle, darker at the edges and lighter in the middle. The spray of water was making it soggy, and I wondered if it would bleed again when I replaced the bandage after the shower.
My mind jumped to Caspian. Did he bleed? He was dead, so the logical answer should be no. Yet he was solid in some ways. Could his skin crack or peel? What would be underneath?
Could he feel hot and cold? Did he shower?
Water drummed off the edge of the shampoo bottle, forcing my attention back to what I was doing. I had so many questions for him. Which ones would he answer? Which ones could he answer?
I turned off the water, wrapped myself in towels, and grabbed a pair of gym shorts and a new T-shirt. It felt so good to be clean again.
The sunlight in my room was shifting and changing, slanting away from me and toward the walls. I stopped at my desk to finish cleaning up the rest of the mess.
Pushing the crumpled T-shirt once more over the sections where the oil had spilled, I noticed that several dark stains had bloomed. The spots felt smooth and slick, not wet,